A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •   BOSTON  •    CHICAGO 
ATLANTA  •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON   •   BOMBAY  •   CALCUTTA 

MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD 

TOROKTO 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 


BY 
ARTHUR  SOMERS  ROCHE 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1922 

All  rights  reserved 


PRINTED  IN  THB  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


COPYRIGHT,  1922, 

BY  P.  F.  COLLIES  AND  SON  COMPANY, 
in  the  United  States,  Great  Britain,  and  Canada 

COPYRIGHT,  1922, 
BY  ARTHUR  SOMERS  ROCHE 

Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  October,   1922. 


SRLF 
URL 

5140953 


TO  ETHEL  PETTIT  ROCHE 

Some  folks  misunderstand  my  scorn; 

What  do  they  know,  the  profiteers? 
Female  things  that  they  may  adorn 

To  prove  their  wealth  among  their  peers. 

Life  is  a  car  of  shifting  gears 
That  grind  unless  the  true  God  drives. 

Mortals  make  futile  engineers 

I  pity  men  who  marry  wives. 

Burdens  they  bear  that  can't  be  borne. 

(Leap  in  the  dark,  my  silly  dears!) 
Some  are  glad  to  be  lewdly  worn 

And  plume  themselves  at  strangers'  leers — 

Behind  them  lie  unuttered  sneers. 
Each  may  choose  from  a  million  lives; 

Too  late  for  most  the  vision  clears 

I  pity  men  who  marry  wives. 

Loveless  passion  is  bastard  born; 

Passionless  love  flees  honest  jeers; 
And  both  are  furtive,  soiled,  forlorn 

Mistresses'  smiles  soon  change  to  tears; 

Wives  are  alive  to  stupid  fears 

But  you,  who  share — how  God  contrives 

To  run  his  Heaven,  sans  you,  for  years.  .  .  . 
I  pity  men  who  marry  wives. 

ENVOY 

Lady,  in  ecstacy  he  cheers, 

Who  for  divinity  ne'er  strives, 
But  sees  you  come  and  knows  it  nears — 

I  pity  men  who  marry  wives! 


LUKE,  XIV,  8:  When  thou  art  bidden  of  any 
man  to  a  wedding,  sit  not  down  in  the  highest 
room;  lest  a  more  honorable  man  than  thou 
be  bidden  of  him. 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 


CHAPTER  I 

It  is  not  that  The  Magnificent  appalls  one;  it  is 
that  one's  grip  of  the  pen  falters,  as  fingers  reflect 
the  uncertainty  of  the  mind.  Certainty!  To  know 
anything  absolutely !  And,  not  knowing,  to  presume 

to  speak  of  facts One  envies  the  sublime 

audacity  of  the  biographer  of,  for  instance,  Na- 
poleon; to  deliver  one's  own  interpretations  of 
deeds  so  colossal  that  continents  rocked  before 

them As  if  the  things  he  did,  that  are  so 

clearly  recorded  for  the  student's  gaze,  are  worth 
anything,  in  appraising  the  man,  as  compared  with 
the  unrecorded  events  of  which  he  was  part,  as 
compared  with  the  unuttered  thoughts  that  animated 
him! 

One  lays  down  the  biography  and  one  knows  the 
author,  but  one  has  not  met  his  subject.  We  have 
seen  the  shell  of  the  egg  and  admired  its  white 
symmetry,  but  we  have  not  tasted  the  meat  within ; 
and  if  we  have,  we  have  lacked  salt  wherewith  to 
savor  it 

And  The  Magnificent  is  not  merely  a  man ;  he  rep- 

i 


2  A  MORE   HONORABLE  MAN 

resents  an  epoch.  Perhaps,  too,  that  is  what  deters 
us.  Caesar,  Napoleon — these  were  personalities, 
who  stand  out  across  the  ages  as  Gibraltar 
dominates  the  inland  sea.  One  is  not  conscious  ,of 
one's  limitations  in  dealing  with  a  personality,  no 
matter  how  overwhelming  it  may  be.  But  with  an 
era,  an  epoch,  it  is  different.  Time  itself  brings  no 
solution  of  the  riddles  of  the  past;  how  shall  one 
attempt  to  solve  the  riddles  of  the  present? 

The  Magnificent,  then,  represents  an  era ;  he  is  no 
personality,  although  he  eats  and  drinks  and  sleeps 
and  loves  and  hates  as  Napoleon  doubtless  did.  He 
will  not  be  flattered  when  he  reads  this.  He  has 
always  thought  of  himself  as  dominant,  overpower- 
ing. But  where  is  the  dominant,  overpowering 
personality  since  Lincoln  died?  Machinery,  inven- 
tion— these  have  made  us  alike  in  speech  and 

thought Vague,  nebulous  shapes  stand  out 

from  among  us,  but  they  are  undefined.  They  are 
gigantic,  but — formless.  In  sixty  years,  since  the 
day  that  a  mad  assassin  shot  the  Dreamer,  there  has 
been  no  other  dreamer,  of  whom  the  world  has 
heard. 

So  it  seems  that  we  are  not  attempting  biography ; 
we  are  attempting  history;  the  task,  too  great,  is 
put  aside Yet,  if  we  could  make  The  Mag- 
nificent clear,  could  define  him  with  his  proper  lights 
and  shadows,  we  might  get  nearer  toward  the  goal 
of  "What  Vit-all-about,"  the  goal  that  seems  to  lean 
to  each  and  all  of  us,  that  seems  to  beam — to  mix 
our  metaphors — and  that,  arrived  at,  is  found  to  be 
something  perished  and  decayed,  whose  light  is  but 

some  chemical  reaction We  may  be  that 

ourselves. 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  3 

To  make  him  clear,  then,  to  give  him  what  per- 
sonality God  may  have  intended  him  to  have,  but 
which,  under  the  unifying  process  of  the  Age  of 
Machines,  has  been  obliterated,  we  must  turn  to 
events,  to  people,  and  away  from  him.  We  may  look 
at  objects,  but  for  understanding  we  seek  their 
reflections.  That  is  absurd;  so  is  all  truth;  and 
falsehood. 

Perhaps  Uncle  Frank  Dabney  can  give  us  light. 
He  is  sitting  upon  the  porch  of  The  Commercial 
House,  of  which  he  is  sole  proprietor.  He  has  just 
bitten  off  a  generous  mouthful  of  Navy  Twist  from 
the  plug  that  is  always  available  in  his  right-hand 
trousers  pocket.  He  spits,  generously,  affluently, 
upon  the  grass  below,  clearing  the  porch  rail  by  the 
scantiest  fraction  of  an  inch.  He  nods  with  self- 
approval  ;  his  eye  is  not  losing  its  keenness,  and  his 
full  lips  retain  their  ejective  powers. 

"Who?"  he  demands  of  the  drummer  who  travels 
for  Perigord's  Soap. 

"The  tall  gal  with  the  yaller  hair,"  responds  the 
drummer.  "She  can  go  buggy-ridin'  with  me  any 
time  she  wants." 

Uncle  Frank  expectorates  again.  His  big  chest, 
covered  with  fat,  swells  beneath  the  hardboiled  shirt 
which  was  white  on  Sunday,  but  which,  to-day  being 
Thursday,  is  not  as  immaculate  as  it  might  be  if 
Uncle  Frank  was  not  a  bachelor.  The  look  which  he 
casts  upon  the  drummer  is  devoid  of  the  genial 
good-humor  which  nearly  always  peeks  from  the 
fat-embedded  eyes  of  mine  host  of  The  Commercial 
House. 

He  rises  swiftly  from  his  seat.  One  realizes, 
almost  with  a  shook,  that  this  great  fat  man  is  quite 


4  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

young;  not  more  than  thirty-five  at  the  outside,  and 
that  his  avuncular  title  is  possibly  mere  tribute  to 
his  commanding  position  as  the  proprietor  of  Old- 
port's  one  hotel.  He  advances  to  the  porch  rail  and 
leans  across  it,  sweeping  his  broadbrimmed  straff 
sunhat  from  his  forehead  with  a  lordly  gesture. 

"Mornin',  Miss  Kamsey,"  he  calls. 

The  fair-haired  girl  looks  up  at  him  from  the 
plank  sidewalk.  The  drummer  notices  that  her  eyes 
are  darkest  blue;  perhaps  the  thick  curling  lashes 
lend  a  violet  tinge  to  them.  There  is  pride  in  the 
way  she  carries  her  small  head ;  there  is  pride  in  the 
lithe  stride  of  her  legs,  in  the  swell  of  her  gracious 
bosom. 

"Morning,  Uncle  Frank, "  she  replies.  Her  voice 
is  clear,  cool,  assured.  The  drummer  shrugs  his 
shoulders;  she's  a  beauty,  but  too  standoffish,  he 
judges  from  her  voice.  The  drummer  is  no  cosmo- 
politan ;  he  travels  out  of  Boston,  it  is  true,  but  most 
of  his  time  is  spent  in  small  villages.  A  man  of  the 
world  would  have  glimpsed  the  fire  in  this  girl,  and 
her  "standoffishness"  would  have  but  whetted  his 

ardor. 

"Kinda  glad  to  be  back,  I'll  betcha,"  says  Uncle 
Frank.  "School  ain't  home,  is  it!" 

"No,  indeed,  it  isn't,"  she  agrees. 

She  passes  on;  Uncle  Frank  resumes  his  seat  and 
his  expectoration.  The  drummer  stirs  uneasily. 
Somehow  or  other  he  is  conscious  of  rebuke. 

"You  mighta  knocked  me  down  to  her,"  he  says. 

"Say,  young  feller,  whyn't  you  quit  smokin'  them 
stinMn'  cigarettes,"  says  Uncle  Frank.  "They  keep 
you  from  growin'  up  into  a  man,  like  your  mother 
had  hopes  for  you." 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  5 

The  drummer  laughs.  ''You're  old-fashioned, 
Uncle  Frank." 

"You  bet  I  am,"  rejoins  mine  host.  "So  old- 
fashioned  that  I  don't  like  to  hear  men  talkin'  about 
how  they'd  like  to  take  girls  they  don't  know  buggy- 
ridin'.  Am  I  perfectly  plain?" 

The  drummer  reddens.  Uncle  Frank  was  the 
champion  wrestler  of  Eockland  County  when  he  was 
twenty- two.  He  is  fat,  but  still  "able." 

"No  offence  meant,"  mutters  the  travelling  man. 

"None  taken,"  replies  Uncle  Frank.  He  leans 
back  in  his  comfortable  chair ;  his  eyes  close ;  slowly 
he  lapses  into  his  morning  nap;  little  bubbles,  re- 
grettably brown,  appear  at  his  mouth,  induced  by 
his  heavy  breathing.  The  drummer  rises  and 
saunters  into  the  lobby  of  The  Commercial  House. 
A  Ramsey  may  be  unattainable,  but  a  waitress  may 
not  be.  He  is  very  proud  of  his  buggy  and  his 
stepping  mare 

The  morning  sun  mounts  higher  in  the  heavens; 
its  rays,  no  longer  fended  by  the  overhanging  roof 
of  the  porch,  alight  upon  Uncle  Frank's  round,  red 
face.  His  big  straw  hat  has  fallen  to  the  floor ;  the 
brown  bubbles  have  formed  a  little  trickle  to  his 
heavy  chin.  A  shameful  sight  of  slothful  ease. 

Something  tickles  his  ear.  His  hand  rises,  with 
great  effort,  from  its  perpendicular  position  where 
it  is  hanging  until  his  finger  tips  almost  touch  the 
floor.  His  ear  is  brushed  but  the  tickling  continues. 
He  digs  at  the  annoyed  portion  of  him.  A  critical 
observer  would  have  noted  that  his  nails  are  stubby, 
as  though  frequently  and  vigorously  bitten,  and  that 
they  are  not  too  sedulously  tended  in  other  respects. 

Slowly,  painfully,  Uncle  Frank's  little  eyes  open. 


6  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

"Daggone  that  daggone  fly,"  he  grumbles.  Then, 
sitting  up,  he  notes  the  presence  of  a  visitor.  A  tall, 
somewhat  gangling  youth,  with  a  broad  mouth,  now 
opened  in  a  grin  that  exposes  white  though  large 
teeth;  a  youth  with  black  hair  that  is  coarse  of 
texture,  unruly,  difficult  to  contain  in  the  part  of  the 
period;  a  youth  with  a  wide,  high  forehead,  and  a 
head  well-rounded  in  back;  a  youth  with  gray  eyes 
that  can  be  keen,  but  that  usually  are  twinkling  as 
though  he  beholds  something  humorous  whose  sight 
is  denied  to  other  people:  this  is  Uncle  Frank's 
guest.  And  he  holds  a  long  blade  of  grass  in  his 
hand. 

"Smart  as  paint,  you  are,  ain't  you,  Sam  Foylef " 
grumbles  Uncle  Frank.  "I  suppose  you  got  nothing 
better  to  do  than  prance  around  like  a  grinnin'  idjut 
wakin'  people  up  from  their  hard-earned  rest?" 

Uncle  Frank  brings  a  colored  handkerchief — blue 
with  white  polka  dots — from  the  rear  pocket  of  his 
trousers,  twisting  and  straining  in  his  chair  to  get 
at  it — and  mops  up  the  offensive  stain  upon  his 
chin. 

"Wanted  to  talk  to  you,"  says  Foyle,  briefly.  He 
still  grins  amiably. 

Uncle  Frank  eyes  him  with  severity.  "Want  to 
borrow  some  of  my  hard-earned  money,  hey?" 

"I  know  better  than  that,"  replies  his  visitor. 

Uncle  Frank,  ridding  himself  of  the  fruits  of 
mastication  indelicately,  brings  into  view  his  pre- 
cious plug  of  Navy  Twist.  He  supplies  his  needs. 

"Glad  you  do,"  he  grunts.  "I  wouldn't  know 
better 'n  to  lend  it  to  you." 

Into  Foyle 's  eyes  creeps  a  trace  of  some  emotion 
different  from  the  usual  merriment  to  be  found  in 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  7 

them.  "I  won't  forget  that  offer,  Uncle  Frank,"  he 
says. 

"  'Twan't  an  offer;  just  a  confession  o'  weak- 
ness," Uncle  Frank  corrects  him.  "What  you  wake 
me  up  for,  anyway?" 

"To  say  goodbye,"  replies  Foyle. 

"Don't  have  to  kiss  me  every  time  you  go  fishin' 
or  swimmin',  do  you?"  demands  Uncle  Frank. 

"I'm  not  coming  back,"  says  Foyle. 

Uncle  Frank  sits  bolt-upright;  his  beady  brown 
eyes  seem  to  widen.  "Whatchu  mean,  you  ain't 
comin'  back?  Where  in  hell  you  goin'  to  go,  I  wanta 
know. ' ' 

Foyle  shrugs.  "Don't  know,"  he  laughs.  "Just 
going." 

"Why?"  demands  Uncle  Frank. 

Foyle  stretches  his  long  arms ;  one  is  able  to  note 
that  his  jacket,  while  neat,  is  somewhat  threadbare. 
His  shirt  is  of  cheapest  cotton,  but  immaculately 
white.  Glancing  down,  one  sees  that  his  shoes, 
though  patched,  are  polished. 

"Nothing  in  Oldport  for  me,  Uncle  Frank,"  he 
replies. 

"That  so?"  Uncle  Frank's  plump  lips  curl  in  a 
sneer.  "Trouble  with  you,  Sam  Foyle,  is  you  ain't 
got  no  ambition.  Plenty  in  Oldport  for  the  right 
kind  of  young  man.  Plenty  here  for  Jim  Wil- 
loughby." 

Foyle  grins.  "Why — so  there  is.  I  hadn't 
thought  of  that." 

Uncle  Frank  attends  to  the  irrigation  of  the  lawn. 
"Guess  you  ain't  thought  nothin'  else,  Sam  Foyle, 
since  Ramsey  Blake  come  back  from  school  Easter, 
and  decided  she  'd  stay  home  for  a  change. ' ' 


8  A   MORE    HONORABLE    MAN 

Color  sweeps  up  the  young  man's  throat  and 
stains  his  face  to  the  roots  of  the  hair  above  his  high 
forehead.  Uncle  Frank  eyes  him  with  continued 
contempt. 

"  'F  I  was  stuck  on  a  young  gal  I'd  not  walk  off 
and  leave  her  to  some  other  feller.'* 

Foyle  twists  on  the  porch  rail  until  he  is  looking 
down  Main  Street  and  out  upon  the  waters  of  the 
bay.  "Suppose  she  told  you  to  go,  Uncle  Frank?" 

"What  you  talkin'  about?"  demands  Uncle 
Frank.  "Ramsey  Blake  is  the  gentlest  girl  ever 
breathed.  She  wouldn't  tell  no  one  to  git  outa  this 
town.  Don't  lie  to  me,  young  man." 

Foyle  shrugs.  "Of  course,  she  didn't  say  that, 
Uncle  Frank,  but — you  know,  I  couldn't  stay  here 
and  see — someone  else — " 

"Jim  Willoughby  got  her?"  demands  Uncle 
Frank. 

' '  She 's  going  to  marry  him, ' '  replies  Foyle. 

"Is  that  so?  Is — that — so?"  Uncle  Frank  heaves 
himself,  by  a  mighty  effort,  from  his  chair.  * '  Guess 
I  '11  take  a  run  up  to  the  Blake  house  and  talk  to  that 
young  lady." 

Foyle 's  long  arms  extend  and  touch  Uncle  Frank's 
shoulders.  Uncle  Frank,  at  twenty-two,  was  the 
champion  wrestler  of  Rockland  County,  and  is  still 
"able,"  but  Foyle  presses  him  back  into  the  chair 
without  effort. 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  Uncle  Frank," 
says  Foyle. 

1 1  Why  won 't  I  ? "  sputters  Uncle  Frank.  ' '  Think 
I'm  goin'  to  let  Ramsey  make  a  fool  of  herself?" 

;  *  She  loves  Jim, ' '  says  Foyle  quietly. 

"That's  ezzackly  why  I  want  to  talk  to  her," 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  9 

fumes  Uncle  Frank.  "Yeller  skunk!"  Foyle  still 
holds  him  in  the  chair.  "Jim  isn't  that,  Uncle 
Frank." 

1  'Is  too!"  insists  mine  host  of  The  Commercial 
House.  "I  kin  prove  it.  Tell  her  some  things  she 
don't  know.  Tell  her  some  things  he  don't  know. 
Daggone,  tell  her  some  things  that  you  don't  know. 
Yeller  skunk." 

' t  Cool  off, ' '  advises  Foyle.  *  *  You  don 't  mean  that 
at  all.  Jim  is  a  good  chap.  Smartest  young  man 
in  Oldport.  Credit  to  the  town.  Going  to  be  a  big 
man. ' ' 

' '  No  bigger  'n  you  could  be  if  you  had  a  mind  to, ' ' 
declares  Uncle  Frank.  "Why,  daggone,  any  time 
you  want  I'll  take  you  right  in  here  with  me.  Best- 
payin'  hotel  this  side  of  Portland.  'F  that  don't 
suit  you,  I  got  more  money  'n  I  can  use.  Back  you 
in  any  business  you  say.  Daggone!  Ain't  a  heluva 
lot  on  talk,  but  your  daddy — "  Uncle  Frank  blows 
his  nose  violently.  "Staked  me;  I'll  stake  his  son." 

Foyle  smiles.  "A  man  that's  reached  twenty-five, 
without  making  some  sort  of  a  stake  for  himself, 
maybe  wouldn't  be  helped  by  being  staked,  Uncle 
Frank." 

"Who  said  so?  Damn'  fool!  Good  stuff  in  you. 
Too  much  readin'!  'S  all's  the  matter  with  you. 
Best  mechanic  in  this  town.  Lot  better  than  Jim 
Willoughby,  for  all  his  factory  and  all.  He's  got  a 
bicycle  factory.  Why  shouldn't  you  have  one?  Put 
up  the  cash  to-morrow.  Daggone!  Put  it  up 
to-day." 

The  pressure  of  Foyle 's  fingers  on  the  fat  man's 
shoulders  is  affectionate  now.  "No  use,  Uncle 
Frank.  I'm  going  to  study  law." 


10  A   MORE    HONORABLE    MAN 

" What's  the  sense  of  that?  Take  you  three  years 
to  learn  it — be  twenty-eight,  then.  You  ain't  a 
sticker,  Sam.  Too  much  readin'.  Good  worker, 
but — no  stick!  You  stick." 

Foyle  shrugs.  "Can't  do  it.  Want  to  be  a  lawyer, 
Uncle  Frank." 

"All  right;  come  back  here.  We'll  make  a  dag- 
gone  judge  of  you.  But — lemme  talk  to  Ramsey — " 

Foyle  shakes  his  head.  "Jim  Willoughby  is  all 
right ;  and  she  loves  him. ' ' 

"Hell!    What's  a  girl  twenty  know  about  love?" 

"As  much  as  she'll  ever  know,"  says  Foyle. 

Uncle  Frank  stares  at  him.  "There's  a  lot  more 
truth  in  that  than  you  know,  Sam.  But  Jim  Wil- 
loughby— " 

"Oh,  The  Magnificent  is  all  right,"  grins  Foyle. 
"He'll  be  a  millionaire." 

"Will  he  make  Eamsey  Blake  happy?"  demands 
Uncle  Frank. 

"Would  I?"  counters  Foyle. 

Uncle  Frank  slumps  in  his  chair.  "Dunno.  But 
happier  than  a  yeller  skunk  would. ' ' 

"Why  do  you  call  him  that?"  asks  Foyle. 

Uncle  Frank  lifts  himself  from  the  chair.  * '  Never 
you  mind  why.  When  you  leavin'  town?"  He 
changes  the  subject  abruptly. 

"To-day — now,"  answers  Foyle.  "Going  to  try 
to  get  a  job  in  a  lawyer's  office  in  Boston." 

"Well,  let's  hear  from  you,"  says  Uncle  Frank. 

He  turns  his  back  on  the  young  man  and  clumps 
heavily  into  The  Commercial  House.  Sam  Foyle 
looks  after  him,  something  very  much  like  moisture 
in  his  eyes.  Then  he  descends  the  porch  steps  to 
the  side  walk.  Coming  down  the  street  at  a  rapid 


A  MORE   HONORABLE    MAN  11 

walk  is  an  alert  young  man.  Even  at  this  distance 
one  senses  his  importance.  He  waves  a  peremptory 
hand  at  Foyle.  But  Foyle  perhaps  is  blinded  by  the 
glare  of  the  noon-day  sun.  He  turns  a  corner  in  the 
opposite  direction. 

In  front  of  The  Commercial  House  the  young  man 
who  beckoned  stops.  He  hesitates  only  a  moment, 
then  enters  the  hotel.  On  the  register  he  writes,  in 
a  big  bold  important  handwriting,  ''Jameson  Briggs 
Willoughby."  Then  he  walks  into  the  dining-room, 
pauses  a  moment  at  the  entrance  to  survey  the 
crowded  room,  to  accept,  as  it  were,  the  homage  of 
silence  that  his  arrival  brings,  and  takes  a  seat  at  a 
table. 

He  eats  in  silence,  rapidly,  though  delicately 
enough.  He  tips  the  waitress  twenty-five  cents  as 
he  leaves.  She  shows  it  proudly  to  a  companion, 
who  is  awed  by  such  extravagant  generosity. 

"Name's  Willoughby,"  whispers  the  recipient  of 
the  gift,  "but  everyone  calls  him  'The  Magnifi- 
cent'." 

"Handsome  feller,"  sighs  the  second  girl. 

"Huh!  Don't  set  your  cap  for  him.  He's  goin' 
to  be  a  millionaire,"  says  the  first  girl. 

But  Uncle  Frank  Dabney,  looking  in  upon  his 
guests,  and  noting  the  departure  of  The  Magnificent, 
sniffs  audibly. 

"Yeller,"  says  Uncle  Frank  Dabney. 


CHAPTER  II 

The  Magnificent  stood  for  a  moment  on  the  steps 
of  The  Commercial  House.  If  he  had  been  conscious 
of  the  silent  admiration  paid  him  by  the  other  din- 
ner guests,  or  of  the  not  so  silent  tribute  of  the 
waitress,  he  gave  no  outward  sign.  A  man  across 
the  street  waved  and  called  a  genial  greeting.  The 
Magnificent  made  no  response,  gave  no  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  salutation.  The  speaker  showed  no 
resentment.  Probably  The  Magnificent  was  plan- 
ning some  new  addition  to  the  bicycle  factory 

No,  he  wasn't  a  bit  stuck-up.  Not  that  kind  of  a 
feller  at  all.  But  his  mind  was  always  occupied. 
Great  feller  for  planning.  Smartest  feller  this  town 
ever  turned  out.  Look  at  what  he's  done.  Sole 
pro-pri-etor  of  the  Pinnacle  Bicycle  Company,  and 
only  twenty-five.  You  got  to  give  it  to  him.  Doing 
more  for  Oldport  than  any  man  in  town 

Observing  him  as  he  stood  there,  anyone  would 
have  conceded  his  immediate  importance  and  the 
potentialities  of  his  future.  His  deep-set  green  eyes, 
spaced  widely  enough  away  from  the  high-bridged 
nose ;  the  high  forehead  from  which  the  blonde  hair 
was  already  receding;  the  oddly-full  lips  above  the 
thin  bony  chin ;  all  of  these  spoke  of  an  alert  mental- 
ity and  a  powerful  will.  If  the  lips  denied  the 
asceticism  of  the  nose  and  jaw,  they  did  not  speak 
too  loudly  of  sensuality.  They  seemed,  on  the  con- 
trary, merely  to  balance  and  well  round  out  a  strong 

13 


14  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

character.  He  was,  with  his  slim  active  figure, 
slightly  above  medium  height,  extremely  good- 
looking.  But  one  forgot  his  looks,  even  his  mental- 
ity, as  soon  as  one  came  into  contact  with  his  will. 
He' knew  what  he  wanted;  one  immediately  conceded 
that  he  would  get  what  he  wanted. 

But  he  was  in  a  rare  moment  of  indecision  now. 
He  glanced  up  the  ascending  street,  then  down, 
toward  the  water-front.  He  consulted  his  watch 
nervously,  then  shrugged  his  shoulders,  pocketed 
the  time-piece,  and  sloughing  off  his  indecision 
strode  swiftly  down  the  street.  At  the  first  corner 
he  turned  in  the  direction  taken  by  Foyle  halt  an 
hour  ago.  Five  minutes  of  rapid  walking  brought 
him  to  a  frame  house,  a  tiny  story  and  a  half  affair, 
set  back  from  the  sidewalk  a  few  yards,  and  beauti- 
fied by  vines  and  lilac  bushes  in  the  yard. 

He  did  not  bother  to  knock,  but  opened  the  front 
door  and  ran  up  a  short  flight  of  stairs,  entering,  at 
the  top,  a  small  and  sparsely  furnished  bed-room. 
But  there  was  that  air  of  desertion  about  the  room 
that  is  unmistakable.  The  neat  white  covers  on  the 
chest  of  plain  pine  drawers  and  on  the  equally  plain 
table,  the  tidies  on  the  backs  of  the  two  cheap  chairs, 
the  rag  rug,  and  the  crazy-quilt  on  the  bed  spoke  of 
a  thrifty  and  accomplished  housewife,  doing  much 
with  little,  but  the  room  held  no  signs  of  habitation. 
It  was  ready  to  be  lived  in;  unquestionably  it  had 
been  lived  in ;  but  it  was  not  lived  in  now. 

The  Magnificent  sat  down  upon  the  bed,  and  the 
black  brows  above  his  eyes,  that  would  be  bushy 
when  they  became  gray,  shortened  in  a  frown, 
sat  here  only  a  moment,  however.     Then  he  rose, 
walked  downstairs  and  entered  the  kitchen  at 


A  MORE  HONORABLE   MAN  15 

rear  of  the  house.  A  woman  bending  over  a  stove, 
looked  up.  She  wiped  her  thin  hands  on  her  clean 
apron. 

"  Hello,  Mr.  Willoughby,"  she  said. 

The  Magnificent  nodded  shortly.  "I've  been  up 
in  Sam's  room.  Looks  as  though  he'd  moved  out, 
Mrs.  Gray." 

"He  has,"  said  the  woman. 

The  Magnificent  frowned.  "What  for?  Thought 
he  always  said  you  were  the  best  cook  in  town." 

The  woman  blushed  at  the  flattery.  "He  was 
always  kind,  Sam  was,"  she  said.  "I'll  go  a  long 
way  to  find  a  boarder  as  nice  as  him,  and  as  regular 
with  his  board  money." 

"Well,  where's  he  gone?"  demanded  The  Mag- 
nificent. 

"To  be  a  lawyer,"  answered  Mrs.  Gray. 

The  Magnificent  rarely  showed  surprise,  but  he 
did  so  now.  His  thick  lips  parted  and  his  bony  chin 
sagged.  Mrs.  Gray  patently  enjoyed  her  little 
sensation. 

"Didn't  he  tell  you?  I'd  'a'  thought  you'd  been 
the  fust  one  to  know.  I  swan,  that's  funny,  ain't 
it?" 

It  was  funny;  The  Magnificent  felt  a  sense  of 
insult.  * '  Did  he  leave  any  word  for  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Gray's  hand  was  now  cleaned  of  the  grease 
or  batter  or  whatever  it  was  that  had  necessitated 
such  rubbing  upon  her  apron.  From  the  pocket  of 
that  bit  of  apparel  she  drew  forth  an  envelope. 

"Left  this  for  you,  Mr.  Willoughby,"  she  said. 

She  handed  it  to  her  visitor,  who  took  it,  thanked 
her,  and  left  the  kitchen.  He  did  not  open  it  until 
he  was  in  the  front  yard.  His  brows  were  narrower 


16  A   MORE    HONORABLE    MAN 

than  ever,  and  in  his  eyes  one  might  have  fancied 
there  was  a  trace  of  uneasiness. 

He  read  the  note.  It  was  brief.  "Dear  Jim: 
Don't  worry — about  anything.  Life's  too  short  to 
worry.  Happy  days.  Sam." 

A  cryptic  note,  yet  not  without  certain  definite 
meaning  to  The  Magnificent.  He  sighed  with  relief. 
Then  he  frowned  again.  Why  the  deuce  should  he 
worrv — about  anything?  Still — Sam  was  a  good 
chap.  One  of  the  best  old  chaps This  non- 
sense about  studying  law 

He  jammed  the  note  in  his  pocket,  walked  through 
the  gate  and  turned  toward  Main  Street.  At  the 
fourth  house  he  hesitated  in  his  stride.  A  bold-eyed, 
black-haired  girl  was  leaning  over  the  fence. 

"Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Jameson  Briggs  Willough- 
by,"  she  said.  There  was  more  than  mockery,  there 
was  insolence,  in  her  tones.  Her  appraisal  of  him 
was  contemptuous.  Despite  himself,  The  Mag- 
nificent colored  faintly. 

"Good  afternoon,  Jennie,"  he  said.  He  stopped. 
For  the  second  time  to-day  he  felt  indecisive. 

"Getting  too  proud  to  see  a  body  these  days,  ain't 
you?"  jeered  the  girl. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  say  that,"  he  said. 

Her  chin  lifted  and  her  nostrils  widened.  "You 
didn't  use  to  be  ashamed  to  be  seen  with  me,"  she 
said. 

"I'm  not  ashamed  now,  Jennie,"  he  answered. 

"But  a  bit  too  careful,  eh?"  she  jibed. 

He  was  master  of  himself  now.  What  self- 
possession  he  had  lost  at  sight  of  her  had  come  back 
to  him  now. 

"There's  no  need  of  you  quarrelling,  Jennie,"  he 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  17 

said,  pleasantly.  "It  takes  two  to  make  a  quarrel, 
you  know,  and  I  won't  be  the  other  one." 

She  tossed  her  head  scornfully.  Her  black  hair 
was  not  too  well  combed,  but  it  was  vital,  alive, 
shining  in  the  early  afternoon  sun. 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  quarrel  with  you,  either," 
she  said.  "I  ain't  any  more  interested  in  you  than 
you  are  in  me.  I  ain't  got  any  right  to  be  interested 
in  anyone — except  my  husband." 

"Your — what?"    He  was  dazed. 

"You  heard  me  all  right,"  she  said,  coolly.  "Any 
reason  why  I  shouldn't  get  a  husband?" 

"None  at  all,"  he  said  swifty.  "I — congratulate 
you,  Jennie.  Do  I  know  him?" 

She  laughed.  "  Oh,  I  guess  you  do.  You  and  Sam 
Foyle  been  pretty  thick  in  days  gone  by." 

*  *  Sam  ? ' '  He  gasped  the  word,  then  stared  at  her. 
Before  his  stare  she  whitened,  moved  slightly  away 
from  the  fence  over  which  she  was  hanging.  Mat- 
ters that  the  fence  had  hidden  became  visible  now. 

"Well,  why  not  Sam?"  she  demanded. 

"No — no  reason  at  all,"  he  replied.  His  voice 
trembled;  his  hands  were  shaking.  "But — but 
Mrs.  Gray  just  told  me  that — that  Sam  had  left  Old- 
port." 

She  nodded.  * '  He  done  right  by  me  before  he  left, 
though."  She  held  out  her  left  hand;  a  plain  gold 
band  was  visible  on  the  third  finger.  "We  done  it 
this  morning,"  she  announced.  Exultation  crept 
into  her  voice. 

"And,"  she  went  on,  "as  soon  as  he  gets  settled 
he's  going  to  send  for  me — " 

"But  I  didn't  know  that— Sam— "  The  Mag- 
nificent stopped.  Bewilderment  overwhelmed  him. 


18  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

1  'There's  a  lot  that  you  don't  know,  Mr.  Mag- 
nificent, ' '  sneered  the  girl. 

"Well,  Sam's  a  good  friend  of  mine.  If  there's 
anything  that  I  can  do,  let  me  know,"  said  The 
Magnificent. 

The  girl  tossed  her  black  mane  again.  "There 
ain't  a  thing  you  can  ever  do,  Mr.  Jameson  Briggs 
Willoughby.  When  you  called  me  a  blackmailer, 
and  got  those  five  men  up  in  Lawyer  Sneed's  office 
to  tell  what  kind  of  girl  I  been — " 

"Now,  Jennie,"  he  began. 

' '  Don 't  *  now,  Jennie '  me, ' '  she  cried.  ' '  I  just  saw 
you  goin'  by,  and  thought  I'd  tell  you  that  a  better 
man  than  you'd  ever  be  had — ' '  Her  voice  dropped. 
"A  better  man?  Why  it's  a — a  blasphemy  to  men- 
tion men  like  you  and  those  five  in  the  same  breath 
with  Sam  Foyle.  He's — he's  like  God,  he  is." 

"Jennie!"    The  Magnificent  was  truly  shocked. 

"Oh — you!"  The  girl  glared  at  him;  her  lower 
lip  trembled ;  then  she  ran  into  the  house.  The  Mag- 
nificent looked  after  her  a  moment.  The  breath 
whistled  through  his  full  lips.  He  felt  a  great  relief. 
Of  course,  that  consultation  with  Lawyer  Sneed  had 
been  kept  pretty  quiet,  but  a  vicious  woman  is  a 
vicious  woman. 

The  incident  was  closed;  he  would  think  no  more 
about  it.  Only — just  how  had  Sam  come  into  the 
affair?  Well,  still  waters  run  deep;  for  all  his  open 
way,  Sam  had  his  secrets;  this  amazing  marriage 
proved  that. 

He  turned  up  Main  Street  toward  the  Blake  home. 
The  news  of  Sam  Foyle 's  marriage  had  just  leaked 
out.  Oldport  buzzed  with  it.  A  group  on  the  porch 
of  The  Commercial  House  hailed  The  Magnificent. 


A  MORE  HONORABLE   MAN  19 

He  joined  them.  He  admitted  to  his  own  surprise. 
Yes,  he  was  a  close  friend  of  Sam.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  knowing  that  Sam  was  probably  the  best  me- 
chanic in  town,  he'd  been  urging  him  to  quit  his 
little  two-by-four  shop  and  enter  the  Pinnacle  Fac- 
tory. He'd  sent  word  to  him  twice  in  the  last  three 
days  to  call.  Indeed,  just  now  he'd  been  to  Sam's 
house,  only  to  find  him  gone.  Gone  to  Boston,  to  be 
a  lawyer,  Mrs.  Gray  said. 

Others  nodded.  Sam  had  told  Uncle  Frank 
Dabney  the  same  thing.  Left  town  and  got  married 
the  same  day.  Who'd  have  thought  it?  A  feller 
like  Sam  and  a  girl  like  Jennie  Smollen.  Still — an 
older  man  intruded  into  the  conversation — after  all, 
it  might  have  been  expected  of  Sam.  He,  for  one, 
hadn't  forgot  the  scandal  about  Sam's  birth.  Oh, 
his  father,  Joe  Foyle,  had  played  up  all  right,  and 
there  wasn't  anything  much  more  than  whispers, 
but  people  had  talked  about  Myra  Foyle,  Sam's 
mother,  and  the  speaker,  for  one,  had  always 
believed 

"Well,  I  don't,"  said  The  Magnificent. 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  the  gossipers.  He 
felt  a  certain  sickly  sensation  at  the  pit  of  his 
stomach.  Sam  had  done  a  reckless  and  foolish 
thing,  but  why  drag  out  a  lot  of  dirty  scandal  about 
his  mother?  It  didn't  have  anything  to  do  with  the 
matter,  and  was  probably  a  filthy  lie,  anyway. 

He  jammed  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  one  of 
them  touched  Sam's  note  to  him.  It  almost  burned 
the  flesh  of  his  fingers,  and  he  withdrew  it  swiftly. 
He'd  forgotten  the  note.  But  now  he  understood 
all  its  implications.  But  Sam  was  silly.  He'd  taken 
a  trivial  entanglement  seriously.  Heaven  knew  that 


20 

The  Magnificent  was  ashamed  of  himself,  for  his 
yielding  to  the  coarse  attractions  of  Jennie  Smollen, 
but  that  was  over  and  done  with  months  ago.  ...  .  . 

He  met  Uncle  Frank  Dabney  emerging  from  the 
Blakes'  front  yard.  It  was  the  most  magnificent 
yard  in  Oldport,  as  the  house  was  also  the  largest 
and  finest.  There  were  great  elm  trees  and  the 
grass  was  carefully  mowed  between  them.  There 
were  cast-iron  deer  on  the  lawn,  frozen  in  metal 
fright  at  sight  of  the  dogs  whose  gaping  iron  jaws 
were  so  close  to  their  flanks.  The  cupola  on  top  of 
the  house  had  windows  that  faced  the  four  points  of 
the  compass.  On  a  clear  day  one  could  see  the  smoke 
of  Boston. 

Uncle  Frank  glared  at  the  newcomer.  * '  Listen  to 
me,  young  feller,"  he  said  thickly. 

The  Magnificent  smiled.    '  *  Glad  to,  Uncle  Frank. ' ' 

1 ' Maybe  you  won't  be  so  daggoned  glad  when  I 
get  through  talking,"  said  the  host  of  the  Commer- 
cial. "I  been  in  to  see  Eamsey  Blake,  and  I  been 
tellin'  her  some  things  about  you." 

The  Magnificent 's  lean  jaw  jutted  slightly  for- 
ward; the  skin  over  it  tightened. 

"Yes?  Suppose  you  tell  them  to  me,  Uncle 
Frank?" 

"I'm  a-goin'  to,  young  feller.  I  told  her  that  that 
time  you  pulled  her  out  of  the  harbor  it  wa'n't  you 
at  all.  It  was  Sam  Foyle,  and  she  was  so  half- 
drowned  she  never  knew  the  difference,  and  you 
was  skunk  enough  never  to  put  her  right.  Posin' 
round  this  town  as  a  hero  when  Sam  was  the  hero 
all  the  time." 

'  *  That  was  a  long  time  ago,  Uncle  Frank, ' '  said  The 
Magnificent  mildly.  "I  was  only  twelve  years  old." 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  21 

"But  you're  twenty-five  now,"  cried  Uncle  Frank. 

"And  I  told  Ramsey  the  truth  about  it  ten  years 
ago,"  said  The  Magnificent. 

Uncle  Frank  gasped.  He  breathed  heavily;  he 
seemed  as  though  he  had  been  punched,  not  too 
gently,  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach. 

"So  that's  why  Ramsey  wasn't  so  excited  about 
my  tellin'  her,  eh?"  he  asked. 

The  Magnificent  smiled.    "Probably,"  he  replied. 

Uncle  Frank  shook  his  head.  "Daggone  me  if 
maybe  I  ain't  been  doin'  you  a  wrong,  Jim  Wil- 
loughby.  But  there's  somethin'  else.  I  ain't  told  it 
to  her,  but — maybe  Lawyer  Sneed  did  get  you  out 
of  any  trouble  with  the  Smollen  girl,  but — " 

"Ramsey  knows  I'm  a  pretty  poor  pup,  Uncle 
Frank,"  interrupted  The  Magnificent.  "I'm  not 
nearly  good  enough  for  her,  and  I  know  it.  And 
I've  told  her,  too." 

"About  Jennie  Smollen?" 

"I  didn't  mention  names.  Why  should  I?"  de- 
manded The  Magnificent. 

"Because  names  is  important  in  this  case,"  said 
Uncle  Frank.  "Because  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  a  nice 
girl  like  Ramsey  Blake,  whose  father's  dead,  made 
unhappy  by  a  little  trollop  like  Jennie — " 

"Sam  Foyle  married  Jennie  this  morning,"  said 
The  Magnificent. 

Uncle  Frank's  mouth  opened.  A  brown  stain 
appeared  at  one  corner  of  his  mouth  and  spread 
over  the  vast  expanse  of  his  chin.  He  wiped  it  away 
mechanically  with  his  polka  dot  handkerchief. 

"Well,"  said  he,  at  length,  "I'm  daggoned  if  I 
ain't  daggoned." 

"Anything  else,  Uncle  Frank?"  asked  The  Mag- 


22  A   MORE    HONORABLE    MAN 

nificent,  pleasantly.    "If  there  isn't,  I  want  to  say 
something. ' ' 

"Go  ahead,"  said  Uncle  Frank  meekly.  "Call 
me  anything  you  got  a  mind  to. ' ' 

The  Magnificent  smiled.  "Don't  want  to  call  you 
anything.  I  want  to  thank  you  for  thinking  so  much 
of  Ramsey.  I  appreciate  it.  My  life  is  an  open 
book.  Some  of  the  pages,  I  admit,  aren't  too  clean, 
but — I'm  sorry." 

"Guess  you're  no  worse 'n  the  rest  of  us," 
grunted  Uncle  Frank.  He  made  the  amende  honor- 
able gallantly. 

"Thanks,"  said  The  Magnificent.  "But  what  I 
wanted  to  say  is  this:  I've  decided  to  enlarge  the 
Pinnacle  Company.  Make  it  a  quarter  of  a  million 
dollar  proposition  instead  of  a  little  fifty  thousand 
dollar  affair.  I'm  going  to  issue  preferred  stock 
with  a  bonus  of  common.  The  bicycle,  Uncle  Frank, 
is  in  its  infancy.  I've  got  a  couple  of  patents  pend- 
ing that  are  going  to  make  the  Pinnacle  the  best 
machine  in  America.  I  have  a  method  for  strength- 
ening the  frame,  yet  making  it  lighter  at  the  same 
time.  I  can  explain  it  in  ten  minutes— 

"Never  mind  the  explanation,"  said  Uncle  Frank. 
"I'll  take  ten  thousand  of  it." 

He  waddled  heavily  down  the  street.  The  Mag 
nificent  looked  after  him  with  a  smile.  Then  he 
turned  and  opened  the  gate  and  proceeded  along  the 
walk  to  the  Blake  mansion.  Before  he  rang  the 
doorbell  he  had  forgotten  Sam  Foyle  and  Jennie 
Smollen  and  Uncle  Frank.  He  had  even  forgotten 
Eamsey  Blake  until  her  own  fair  presence  apprised 
him  of  his  purpose  here.  He  had  come  up  to  urge 
her  to  advance  the  date  of  their  marriage.  She 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  23 

agreed.  She  was  very  much  in  love  with  the  clever- 
est man  in  town  who  was  also,  she  told  herself,  the 
most  honest.  Hadn't  he  confessed  to  things  that  an- 
other man  would  hide  from  a  girl?  Didn't  she  re- 
spect him  the  more  for  that  confession?  She  did. 


CHAPTER  in 

Now,  then,  anyone  who  knew  Uncle  Frank  Dabney 
would  tell  you,  unhesitatingly,  that  if  ever  a  man 
lived  who  knew  his  own  mind,  who  held  strong 
opinions  that  verged  upon  prejudice,  mine  host  of 
The  Commercial  House  was  that  man.  Yet,  in  the 
course  of  a  couple  of  hours,  we  have  seen  Uncle 
Frank  change,  readjust,  and  abandon  opinions  and 
prejudices  held  closely  to  his  heart;  opinions  that 
had  endured  for  a  decade. 

What  does  it  mean? 

"Yeller  skunk,"  said  Uncle  Frank  before  dinner. 
"I'll  take  ten  thousand  of  it,"  said  Uncle  Frank 
after  dinner. 

Man  and  boy,  Uncle  Frank  had  known  The  Mag- 
nificent for  twenty-five  years.  Then,  suddenly,  at 
the  gate  of  the  Blake  mansion,  Uncle  Frank  dis- 
covered that  he  had  not  known  The  Magnificent  at 
all.  Waddling  down  the  hill  toward  his  hotel,  Uncle 
Frank  was  discovering  that  he  had  not  known  him- 
self, either.  Uncle  Frank,  at  thirty-five,  was  hover- 
ing upon  the  outskirts  of  wisdom.  .  .  . 

Puzzled  at  where  to  begin,  we  chose,  almost  at 
random,  a  day  in  the  June  of  1890.  Yet  not  entirely 
at  random,  for  we  chose  a  day  of  events ;  the  day  on 
which  Sam  Foyle  gave  his  name  to  Jennie  Smollen 
and  left  town;  the  day  on  which  Ramsey  Blake 
yielded  to  the  impetuosity  of  The  Magnificent  and 
"named  the  day"j  the  day  on  which  Uncle  Frank 

25 


26  A  MORE   HONORABLE    MAN 

Dabney  learned  that  the  secret  of  The  Magnificent 's 
skunkishness  was  not  known  only  to  him,  but  was 
also  known  to  Ramsey  Blake,  and  that  therefore  the 
said  skunkishness  had  no  existence,  or  that,  at  least, 
the  evidence  was  inconclusive. 

Inconclusive!  Can  any  evidence,  of  anything,  be 
other  than  that?  Is  anything,  or  anyone,  what  it  or 
he  seems?  And,  to  make  the  puzzle  more  involved, 
is  it  or  he  what  he  or  it  seems  not  to  be?  But  this  is 
a  silly  puzzle,  unanswerable  because  absurd,  some- 
one says.  To  which  we  make  reply :  so  is  the  riddle 
of  existence. 

The  Magnificent  is  before  us,  yet  we  look  not  at 
him,  but  at  others,  to  discover  him.  We  think  that 
we  have  found  him  out,  but  learn  how  untrustworthy 
are  the  mirrors  which  reflect  him.  If  we  could  get 
inside  his  own  skull.  ....  But  to  what  use?  For  a 
moment  we  were  within  the  skull  of  Uncle  Frank 
and  if  we  had  not  followed  him  to  the  Blake  mansion 
we  would  have  brought  in  a  verdict  based  upon  evi- 
dence which  he  retracted  later.  Well,  we  can  only 
try,  remembering  that  it  is  not  so  much  The  Mag- 
nificent that  matters,  as  it  is  the  cause,  or  the  time, 
of  which  The  Magnificent  is  but  an  expression 

There  were  other  days  which  might  have  been  se- 
lected; other  people.  The  excitement  of  his  birth 
,.  :.  .  .  Why  not  begin  with  the  excitement  over  his 
father's  birth,  his  grandfather's? 

Or  the  day  on  which  The  Magnificent  flatly  and 
finally  refused  to  go  to  college  . . . . ' '  I  want  money, ' ' 
he  said.  "I'm  going  to  make  it." 

Possibly  the  story  of  The  Magnificent  is  really 
the  story  of  his  parents.  (But,  on  the  same  theory, 
perhaps  it  is  the  tale  of  The  Magnificent 's  children 


A  MORE  HONORABLE   MAN  27 

that  make  his  story.)  Then,  again,  the  beginnings 
and  the  end  of  the  Pinnacle  Bicycle  Company  may 
"be  the  beginning  and  end  of  The  Magnificent.  Only, 
Pinnacle  Bicycle  is  vanished  and  The  Magnificent 
remains  .... 

One  shakes  the  head,  bewildered,  when  one  con- 
templates Pinnacle  Bicycle  ....  First,  the  sorrow, 
impinging  on  shame,  of  The  Magnificent 's  mother. 
She  was  a  New  Hampshire  Briggs,  and  her  father 
had  been,  briefly,  secretary  to  Mr.  Polk  after  his 
retirement  from  the  White  House.  Later,  he  had 
been  in  Congress;  still  later,  a  Circuit  Judge.  His 
father  had  been  a  lawyer  and  had  been  a  signer  of 
the  Constitution.  The  law  was  inevitably  the  career 
of  her  son. 

Nor  had  The  Magnificent  balked  until  it  came  time 
for  him  to  go  to  Harvard.  He  had  progressed  nobly 
in  the  classics  at  the  school  maintained  by  the  Rev- 
erend Zachary  Henderson  at  Newburyport.  And  it 
was  not  until  the  very  day  that  he  was  to  take  train 
for  Cambridge  that  he  revolted.  There  was  a  pitiful 
scene  with  his  widowed  mother,  in  which  he  was  in- 
formed of  the  glories  and  grandeurs  of  the  Briggses 
and  Willoughbys,  glories  and  grandeurs  of  which 
he  had  been  cognizant  for  a  dozen  years. 

"It  don't  seem  to  have  got  us  anywhere,"  he  re- 
torted. "I'd  just  as  soon  sign  my  name  to  a  check 
for  a  million  dollars  as  sign  it  to  the  Constitution." 

Mrs.  Willoughby's  hands  had  been  piously  up- 
lifted. "What  would  your  dear  father  say?  A 
Willoughby  in  over-alls?" 

"He'd  say,  I'll  bet,  that  I'm  right.  I'm  not  cut 
out  for  a  profession  and — mother,  there's  millions 
in  bicycles. ' ' 


28  A   MORE   HONORABLE    MAN 

* '  There 's  honor  in  the  law, ' '  she  reminded  him. 

He  laughed.  ''The  real  honor  comes  to  the  man 
who  can  pile  up  the  old  millions, ' '  he  retorted.  "  I  '11 
hire  the  best  lawyers  in  Massachusetts  to  draw  my 
contracts,  mother." 

She  pleaded,  of  course.  But  the  will  of  him  was 
as  powerful  at  eighteen  as  it  was  to  be  at  fifty-eight. 
She  yielded.  She  gave  him  the  nest-egg  that  had 
been  put  aside  for  his  education.  A  Willoughby 
wore  over-alls. 

But  not  for  long.  He  knew  machinery  and 
mechanics.  He  went  to  Hartford  for  awhile  and 
worked  in  the  Columbia  factory,  as  mechanic  and 
salesman.  Then  he  returned  to  Oldport.  The  Pin- 
nacle Bicycle  began  to  be  manufactured.  One  won- 
ders exactly  what  Mrs.  Willoughby  thought  as  the 
one  building  acquired  a  companion,  and  the  two 
mated,  and  a  litter  of  hastily-erected  buildings 
sprawled  over  the  landscape.  Then  co-ordination 
followed  a  fire  that  destroyed  the  Pinnacle  works. 
A  great  single  factory  replaced  the  old  group;  it 
grew  and  grew,  until,  like  an  overfed  puppy,  it  be- 
came unwieldy,  stumbled  into  sleep  ....  Mrs. 
Willoughby  died  before  the  slumber  began,  but  had 
she  lived  she  would  have  known  that  slumber  begets 
dreams  and  that  of  the  dreams  greater  things  would 
come.  For  she  had  come  to  faith  in  his  genius,  and 
knew  that  failures  were  but  stepping-stones  to — 
success  f  That  is  what  we  are  trying  to  find  out. 

Another  day,  then,  suggests  itself  as  worthy  of 
commemoration.  It  is  a  day  almost  exactly  three 
months  after  Sam  Foyle  left  Oldport  and  ten  weeks 
after  the  simple  wedding  of  Ramsay  Blake  and 
Jameson  Briggs  Willoughby.  The  young  couple 


A   MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  29 

have  returned  from  a  brief  honeymoon  at  Narra- 
gansett  Pier.  The  Magnificent  had  not  yet  made 
his  millions,  but  he  was  always  The  Magnificent. 

Pinnacle  Bicycle  has  been  reorganized,  revivified 
with  new  inpourings  of  the  precious  blood  of  busi- 
ness, capital.  Uncle  Frank  Dabney's  ten  thousand 
has  been  matched  by  numerous  other  believers  in  the 
destiny  of  Pinnacle.  Sixty  mechanics  have  been  lured 
away  from  Hartford  to  Oldport.  With  them  is  one 
who  in  another  generation  would  be  termed  a  *  *  Bed" ; 
in  August,  1890,  he  is  termed,  vaguely,  a  socialist. 

He  has  the  gift  of  gab,  this  fellow;  magnetism, 
too.  He  can  make  a  good  cause  seem  better,  and  a 
poor  cause  good.  He  has  been  talking  to  his  fel- 
lows, the  importations  from  Hartford  and  the  older 
hands.  They  want  an  increase  of  wages,  an  increase 
which  The  Magnificent  has  flatly  refused  to  grant. 

"I'm  paying  you  better  money  than  any  of  you 
ever  got  in  your  lives  before,"  he  said.  "And  it 
doesn't  cost  nearly  as  much  to  live  in  Oldport  as  it 
did  in  Hartford.  That's  for  you  newcomers.  As 
for  you  old-timers:  if  you  don't  know  me  well 
enough  to  know  that  I'm  fair  to  my  men,  there's  no 
use  my  saying  anything. ' ' 

The  discussion  takes  place  in  the  center  of  the 
quadrangle  formed  by  the  Pinnacle  buildings.  Up- 
stairs, on  the  second  floor,  several  young  girls,  em- 
ployed in  the  clerical  departments,  are  listening. 
They  nudge  one  another.  "Sure  is  handsome,  ain't 
he?  Bern'  bald  kinda  becomes  him,  don't  it?" 

Her  mates  sigh  ....  Why  can't  all  girls  marry 
bosses? 

"That  all  you  got  to  say?"  says  Nordstrom,  the 
socialist  inspirer  of  revolt. 


30  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

"That's  my  final  word,"  cries  The  Magnificent. 
"Not  one  damn'  cent  more.  Take  it  or  leave." 

"Wai,  I  guess  we  ban  leave  it,"  says  Nordstrom. 

The  Magnificent  turns  upon  his  heels  and  walks 
into  the  building.  The  girls,  whose  fathers,  brothers, 
lovers,  are  in  the  group  of  malcontents,  raise  a 
quickly  stifled  cheer.  A  cheer  for  The  Magnificent ! 
An  amazing  thing ! 

The  men  file  quietly  out  of  the  quadrangle;  the 
smoke  from  the  chimneys  grows  fainter;  finally  it 
vanishes;  the  hum  of  machinery  is  stilled.  In  its 
place  one  hears  the  hum  of  voices,  some  unpleasant- 
ly raised.  For  their  owners  have  been  visiting  Sim 
Eanney's  Place,  and  Sim's  whiskey  is  not  soothing 
to  their  tempers. 

"He  ban  too  damn'  fresh,"  growls  Nordstrom. 
1 '  He  thinks  he  makes  Pinnacles  all  by  himself.  Who 
are  we?" 

"Oh,  we're  a  lot  of  filthy  laboring  men,"  says  a 
pert  young  Irishman,  affecting  a  feminine  falsetto. 

"And  'e's  nought  but  a  damn'  dude,"  says  a  man 
who  began  life  in  a  tin  mine  in  Cornwall. 

"And  they  call  this  a  free  country,"  says  a  red- 
faced  Nova  Scotian.  He  spits  heartily  upon  the 
saw-dust  strewn  floor. 

"It's  a  lot  better  than  yours,  Blue-Nose,"  sneers 
an  ex-fisherman  from  Gloucester. 

"Quit  that,"  orders  Nordstrom.  "No  fightin', 
you  ban  hear  me  ? ' ' 

•     "We  hear  you,   Swede,"   laughs   the  Irishman. 
"I'll  lick  the  lad  that  tries  to  lick  anyone." 

Nordstrom  glowers  approval.  "We  gotta  plan. 
First,  we  unionize,  and  get  a  charter " 

"Aw,  hell,  let's  burn  the  factory  down.     Serve 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  31 

him  right ;  set  him  in  his  place,  the  upstart. ' '  This 
from  a  reckless  youth,  whose  southern  drawl  con- 
sorts oddly  with  his  bloodthirsty  sentiments. 

"No  use  waitin'  an'  starvin',''  says  another,  ap- 
provingly. "Willoughby  wants  fight;  let's  give  it 
to  him — right. ' ' 

There  is  a  murmur  of  assent,  quelled  by  the  sheer 
force  of  Nordstrom 's  personality.  But  Sim  Ranney 
plies  his  trade;  he  has  impressed  into  service  his 
young  brother  as  extra  bartender;  alcohol  makes 
dreadful  things  seem  natural ;  the  impossible  sounds 
plausible. 

Into  a  quarrelling  turmoil  steps  The  Magnificent. 
He  eyes,  with  disdain,  the  red-faced  throng  at 
the  bar. 

"I've  come  to  tell  you  boys  that  I'll  give  you  until 
five  o'clock  to  step  around  to  my  office  and  agree  to 
come  back  to  work.  All  who  fail  to  do  so  will  lose 
their  jobs.  I  shall  send  to  Hartford  and  Dayton, 
Ohio,  for  new  workmen.  Going  to  telegraph  for 
them." 

"Is  that  so?  Ain't  we  got  no  rights?1"  demands 
Nordstrom. 

"Not  a  single  one,"  replies  The  Magnificent.  "I 
built  this  factory  and  I  own  it.  I'm  president  of  the 
company  and  chief  stock-holder.  You  men  haven't 
a  damn'  thing  to  do  but  work  for  me!  Take  my 
orders  or  get  out,  and  I  don't  much  care  which. 
That's  all." 

*  *  Is  that  so  ?  The  hell  you  say !  You  listen  to  us, ' ' 
says  the  young  southerner.  "You  Yanks  licked  my 
folks  twenty-five  years  ago  to  make  the  nigger  free. 
I  think  it's  up  to  a  man  from  Alabama  to  lick  a  Yank 
to  make  the  white  man  free, ' ' 


32  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

"Would  you  really  like  to  try  it?"  The  Magnifi- 
cent's  thick  lips  curl  back  from  his  white  and  even 
teeth. 

"Are  you  man  enough?"  demands  the  southerner. 

For  answer  The  Magnificent  closes  with  him; 
there  is  a  flurry  of  fists  and  the  southerner  goes 
down.  The  Magnificent  re-arranges  his  cravat. 
"Well,  you  men  coming  back  to  work?"  he  asks, 
evenly. 

Nordstrom  laughs  harshly.  ' '  That 's  the  way  with 
you  capitalists.  You  lick  a  workman  and  think  that 
settles  it.  But  suppose  that  don't  settle  it,  eh,  Mr. 
Willoughby?" 

"Then  I  get  other  hands,"  replies  Willoughby. 

The  young  Irishman  steps  forward.  "We  won't 
let  'em  enter  the  town,"  he  threatens. 

Willoughby  laughs.  "Try  to  stop  them,"  he 
jeers. 

The  Cornishman  approaches  him.  "Nought  but 
a  damn'  dude,"  he  growls.  "Let's  rush  him,  lads, 
and  stamp " 

They  are  in  the  mood  for  it;  they  are  gathering 
in  a  group,  about  to  rush,  when  into  Sim's  Place 
strides  Sam  Foyle.  He  has  heard,  from  a  frightened 
small  boy,  of  the  impending  trouble,  and  has  run 
all  the  way  from  the  far  end  of  town.  He  wears  a 
black  suit  and  his  hat  is  likewise  black.  Also,  there 
are  black  gloves  upon  his  big  hands. 

"Here,  boys,  you  can't  do  that,"  he  cries,  sharply. 

The  Cornishman  spits.  "And  'oo  are  you  to  tell 
us  what  we  mought  or  moughtn't  do,  hey,  mister? 
I've  'eard  of  you,  I  'ave.  The  dirty  pup  that  mar- 
ried your  doxie  and  ran  away  from  her,  eh?  She's 
been  sick  and  dyin'  and  you  come  home  for  the 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  33 

funeral  and  that's  all,  eh?    Cheaper  to  bury  a  wife 
and  child  than  stay  with  'em  and  help  'em  live,  eh?" 

"Aw,  quit  that  talk,"  says  the  young  Irishman. 

"It's  true,  eyen't  it?"  cries  the  angry  Cornish- 
man.  "Didn't  I  hear  them  talking  about  it  only 
last  night,  a  lot  of  the  fishermen?  Didn't  they  say 
that  when  Sam  Foyle  come  here  to  the  funeral 
they'd  ride  him  on  a  rail?  Well,  w'y  not  save  'em 
the  trouble?" 

"Better  get  out — quick,  Sam,"  whispers  The 
Magnificent. 

Foyle  shakes  his  head.  "You  go,  Jim.  Get  help. 
I'll  handle  them.  They're  in  a  bad  mood.  If  they 
turn  loose  on  you  they'll  burn  the  factory " 

"But  they'll  kill  you,  Sam,"  whispers  The  Mag 
nificent. 

Foyle  pays  no  heed.  He  walks  suddenly  toward 
the  Cornishman. 

"You  called  my  wife  a  name,"  he  says,  quietly. 

The  Cornishman 's  broad  shoulders  square;  his 
chest  swells;  his  great  hands  knot.  Then,  as  he 
looks  into  the  calm  eyes  of  Foyle,  he  seems  to  find 
something  there  that  puzzles  him.  It  is  not  anger ; 
he  doesn't  know  what  it  is.  Suddenly  he  puts  out 
his  great  hand. 

"Lad,  it  was  the  whiskey  talkin'.  I'd  say  nought 
myself  to  any  man  that  lost  his  wife.  Sit,  lad." 

Foyle  shakes  his  head.  "We've  got  to  settle  a 
lot  of  things  that  have  been  said.  Maybe  it  was  the 
whiskey  made  you  all  say  these  things  to  Mr.  Wil- 
loughby."  He  looks  about  the  saloon.  "Boys,  it's 
none  of  my  business,  but — why  not  settle  this  mat- 
ter now?" 

"How?"  demands  the  young  Irishman. 


34  A   MORE    HONORABLE    MAN 

"Well,  Mr.  Willoughby  owns  the  Pinnacle,  doesn't 
he?" 

"What  of  it?"  growls  Nordstrom. 

Foyle  smiles.  * '  He  must  be  considered,  you  know. 
We  must  render  unto  CaBsar  the  things  which  are 
Caesar's,  you  know." 

"Yes,  and  that  eyen't  the  end  of  the  speech," 
cries  the  Cornishman.  "How  about  the  things  that 
are  God's?" 

Foyle  looks  about  the  room;  his  glance  rests, 
finally,  on  The  Magnificent.  "Well,  Jim,  I  suppose 
God  must  enter  even  into  a  bicycle  factory.  Have 
you  considered  His  side  of  it?" 

The  Magnificent  was  always  quick-witted.  He  saw 
how  close  he  had  been  to  danger,  how  deftly  Foyle, 
in  some  incomprehensible  fashion,  had  mastered 
the  men. 

"I  don't  believe  I  have,"  he  said.  "But  I'm 
willing  to.  Just  where  does  He  come  in?" 

Someone  laughed,  not  ribaldly,  but  in  great  good 
humor.  The  Magnificent  knew  that  the  strike  was 
over.  And  Sam  Foyle  had  ended  it.  The  Magnifi- 
cent wished  that  he  knew  just  how.  Some  day  he 
would  know.  But  that  was  many,  many  years  in  the 
future,  after  many  complexities  had  resolved  them- 
selves into  one  simplicity. 


CHAPTER  IV 

We  have  witnessed,  in  Sim  Ranney's  Place,  the 
strange  workings  of  the  hearts  of  men.  Labor  has 
growled  at  capital  and  raised  its  knotted  fist;  capi- 
tal has  knocked  labor  down ;  like  Antaeus,  labor  has 
been  revivified  by  the  temporary  defeat,  has  gath- 
ered for  the  rush ;  reason  has  entered  the  arena  and 
truce  has  ensued.  We  have  seen  liquor  arouse 
strange  destructive  ideas.  We  have  seen  a  man  who 
must  be  contemptible — has  there  not  been  talk  of 
riding  upon  a  rail? — quell  the  angry  passions  that 
might  have  led  to  murder.  We  have  seen  a  man 
thoroughly  admirable  fail  to  quell  those  passions. 
We  shake  our  heads 

"One  thing  is  certain!"  The  Magnificent  is  em- 
phatic. 

"So?"  Foyle  grins— sadly.  "Jim,  I'd  just  about 
concluded  that  nothing  was  certain." 

The  Magnificent  is  half  a  stride  ahead  of  the 
longer-legged  Foyle.  They  have  walked,  in  the 
years  of  their  friendship,  scores  of  miles  together, 
on  hunting  trips,  or  whipping  the  brooks  with  home- 
made flies ;  and  always  The  Magnificent  has  been  in 
the  van,  and  always  Foyle  has  been  at  his  elbow, 
hurrying  to  keep  up.  A  born  leader;  a  born  fol- 
lower :  so  we  would  decide,  if  we  had  not  witnessed 
the  scene  in  Sim's  Place. 

"Sim  has  to  go,"  says  The  Magnificent.  His 
white,  even  teeth  click  together;  his  black  brows, 

35 


36  A  MORE   HONORABLE    MAN 

that  contrast  so  oddly  with  his  blonde  hair,  shorten 
and  hump  in  the  center,  as  he  frowns. 

' 'What's  Sim  been  doing?"  asks  Foyle. 

' '  You  saw.  That  filthy  rot-gut  that  he  sells  might 
have  led  to  arson,  murder — anything.  There's  no 
place  in  Oldport  for  a  gin-mill." 

"You  take  a  drink  occasionally,  don't  you?"  asks 
Foyle. 

"I  can  handle  it,"  exclaims  The  Magnificent. 
"And  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  give  it  up  for  the 
sake  of  the  example.  It's — immoral!" 

"It  does  interfere  with  business,"  agrees  Foyle. 

The  Magnificent  turns  upon  him  eagerly.  "Ex- 
actly. Bad  business  is  bad  morals ;  good  business  is 
good  morals.  Isn't  that  true?" 

"As  true  as  anything  I've  heard,"  replies  Foyle. 

The  Magnificent  eyes  his  companion  doubtfully 
for  a  moment,  as  though  he  suspects  some  implica- 
tion, not  too  patent  in  the  phrasing  of  Foyle 's 
assent.  But  he  is  too  busy  a  man  to  split  the  hairs 
of  argument. 

"I  think  I'll  send  for  Halliday,"  he  says  thought- 
fully. "Good,  sound  man,  and  popular  with  all 
creeds.  Give  him  a  week  in  Oldport  and  Sim  Ran- 
ney  himself  will  apply  the  match  to  his  place.  He 
doesn't  talk  hell-fire  and  damnation;  he  simply  tells 
people  that  ten  drinks  of  whiskey  will  buy  the  baby 
a  new  pair  of  shoes.  That  sort  of  talk.  Fact  stuff. 
Shows  the  men  how  they  can  do  more  work  and 
make  more  money,  too. ' ' 

"And  make  more  money  for  their  employers," 
suggests  Foyle,  mildly. 

"Why  not?"  demands  The  Magnificent  aggres- 
sively. 


A  MORE    HONORABLE   MAN  37 

Foyle  shrugs.    "No  answer  to  that,  Jim." 

"It's  a  good  work,  isn't  it?"  persists  The  Mag- 
nificent. 

Foyle  nods. 

"Then  why — what — what  you  got  against  it?"  de- 
mands The  Magnificent. 

"Not  a  thing  in  the  world,"  laughs  Foyle.  "Ex- 
cept— you  said  that  good  business  is  good  morals." 

"Well,  isn't  it?  You  said  it  was  true,"  cried  The 
Magnificent. 

"But  don't  forget,"  says  Foyle,  "that  where 
there's  a  profit  for  the  prophet,  there's  liable  to  be 
a  hypocrite  in  the  woodpile." 

"Are  you  talking  about  Halliday?  He's  one  of 
the  noblest  characters — " 

The  gray  eyes  of  Foyle  narrow.  "I'm  talking 
about  you,  Jim." 

For  a  moment  it  seems  that  The  Magnificent  will 
take  offense.  Then  he  laughs.  "Good  old  Sam! 
Talking  in  riddles,  as  usual."  The  smile  leaves  his 
lips  and  the  mirth  departs  from  his  eyes.  "No  need 
for  me  to  thank  you,  Sam,  is  there?  I'd  have  got 
away  with  it,  all  right,  but  it  might  have  been  un- 
pleasant." 

"Oh,  they're  a  good  lot  of  boys,"  agrees  Foyle. 
"You'd  have  handled  them."  He  stops  before  the 
house  where  Jennie  Smollen  used  to  live.  He  holds 
out  his  hand.  * '  So  long,  old  man. ' ' 

The  Magnificent  glances  hastily  at  the  little  frame 
house.  His  eyes  darken.  "So  long  nothing,"  he 
says.  "You're  back  now  and — you're  going  to 
stay. ' ' 

Foyle  shakes  his  head. 

"Yes,   you   are,   too,"   insists   The   Magnificent. 


38  A   MORE    HONORABLE   MAN 

"You  always— Sam,  you  know,  after  all,  my  method 
of  lightening  the  frame  of  the  Pinnacle  is  your 

idea." 

' '  Rot, ' '  says  Foyle.    "  I  had  a  thought— you  made 

it  practical." 

"Thoughts  are  worth  money — good  money,"  says 
The  Magnificent.  "Besides — you  can  handle  men. 
Darned  near  as  well  as  I  can."  He  doesn't  smile  as 
he  says  this.  One  begins  to  suspect  that  perhaps 
The  Magnificent  has  little  humor.  "Need  you— 
badly.  Does  three  thousand  a  year  sound  like 
money  ?  Supervising  foreman. '  > 

"Much  obliged,  old  man,"  says  Foyle.  "But— 
I'm  interested  in  what  I'm  doing." 

"Really  studying  law?"  asks  The  Magnificent. 

"Trying  to,"  replies  Foyle. 

1 1  Huh !  More  money  in  business, ' '  says  The  Mag- 
nificent. "It'll  take  years— come  to  Pinnacle,  Sam." 

Foyle  smiles,  but  nods  his  head.    "So  long,  old 

man. ' ' 

He  holds  out  his  hand,  but  The  Magnificent  does 
not  take  it.  He  seems  oddly  embarrassed. 

"Sam— that  note  you— left  for  me.  I— Sam,  why 
the  devil  did  you  marry  Jennie?"  he  blurts  out. 

"Had  to,"  says  Sam. 

"That  isn't  true.  I— Sam,  you  hardly  knew  her. 
She— I  had  Lawyer  Sneed— get  the  goods  on  her, 
and  you — your  name  was  never  mentioned." 

"So!    What  does  that  prove?"  asks  Foyle. 

The  Magnificent  is  not  a  bit  magnificent  now.  His 
head  is  hanging  to  one  side,  like  that  of  a  bad  and 
embarrassed  boy. 

"I  was — worried.  You  knew  it.  You  knew  that 
Jennie  might  have  made  trouble.  You  did  it  for 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  39 

me,  and — it  wasn't  necessary,  Sam.  I  wasn't  that 
worried.  It  wasn't  necessary." 

"No?  She  might  have  killed  herself,"  says  Sam. 

"But — that  wouldn't  have  been  your  fault,"  pro- 
tests The  Magnificent. 

"But  I  knew  about  it;  about  the  way  she  felt," 
says  Sam.  Then,  as  bewilderment  still  is  in  the  eyes 
of  The  Magnificent,  "A  man  has  to  save  his  soul, 
Jim." 

The  Magnificent  shakes  his  head.  "Sam,  I  don't 
understand  you  at  all." 

Foyle  laughs.  "Yes,  you  do,  old  chap.  You  only 
think  you  don't.  So  long,"  he  says  again. 

This  time  The  Magnificent  takes  the  proffered 
hand.  "You  won't  come  to  Pinnacle?" 

Foyle  shakes  his  head. 

"You're  throwing  away  a  chance  for  fortune, 
Sam,"  almost  blusters  Willoughby. 

"Think  how  rich  I  am  to  be  able  to  do  that,"  grins 
Foyle. 

"Why,  you  haven't  got  a  nickel,"  says  The  Mag- 
nificent. Despite  his  friendship  for  this  companion 
of  his  youth,  he  cannot  keep  the  contempt  from  his 
voice. 

"Yes,  I  have,  too.  I've  four  dollars  and  eighty- 
five  cents;  enough  to  take  me  back  to  Boston,"  says 
Foyle. 

Before  such  absurdity  The  Magnificent  is  help- 
less. "Well,  you  can't  leave  town  this  minute.  Come 
up  to  dinner,  will  you?  Kamsey  will  be  glad  to  see 
you." 

"Sure  of  that?"  asks  Foyle. 

"Why,  of  course,"  replies  The  Magnificent. 

"Then  I'll  come,"  says  Foyle. 


40  A  MORE    HONORABLE   MAN 

He  pushes  open  the  gate  in  the  fence  over  which 
Jennie  Smollen  leaned  on  the  day  that  The  Mag- 
nificent last  walked  down  this  street.  Willoughby 
seems  to  feel  her  presence,  and  his  stride  is  hurried 
as  he  walks  away.  But,  conscious  of  his  flight,  he 
deliberately  slows  his  pace.  He  has  nothing  with 
which  to  reproach  himself,  save  a  sin  of  the  flesh 
which  he  has  repented  a  score  of  times  since.  He 
mustn't  be  morbid.  He  was  good  to  Jennie,  the  poor 
thing.  He  is  suddenly  saddened  at  her  death;  he  is 
so  vitally  alive  himself  that  he  pities  so  vital  a  per- 
son as  Jennie  that  her  vitality  is  no  more. 

Should  he  have  offered  some  sort  of  condolence 
to  Sam,  instead  of  the  things  he  said?  But  how 
could  he?  Their  marriage  was  such  a  mockery 
....  Was  it,  though?  He  is  bewildered.  Anyway, 
he'll  see  that  this  damned  nonsensical  talk  about 
riding  Sam  on  a  rail  is  stopped  at  once.  He  speaks 
to  two  or  three  people  on  Main  Street,  and  learns, 
to  his  relief,  that  if  any  such  idea  has  been  in  the 
minds  of  the  fisherfolk  it  has  been  expelled.  Mrs. 
Smollen,  Jennie's  mother,  has  told  certain  facts. 
But  we  might  as  well  get  them  first-hand  from  her. 

Foyle  enters,  without  knocking,  the  front  door  of 
the  shabby  frame  house,  a  house  rendered  pathetic 
by  the  neatness  of  the  little  yard.  One  feels  that 
here  is  an  effort  to  keep  up  appearances,  a  pride  that 
will  not  admit  defeat.  But  the  drawn  window- 
shades,  the  crape  that  the  undertaker  has  not  yet 
taken  away  from  the  front  door,  tell,  somehow,  that 
defeat  has  come  here. 

A  fat  woman,  her  head  swathed  in  mourning  veils, 
is  seated  in  a  rocking-chair  in  the  parlor.  The  door 
from  the  front  hall  is  open,  and  Foyle  sees  her  at 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  41 

once.  On  her  lap  is  resting  a  huge  crayon  portrait 
of  a  baby  girl.  On  the  wall,  above  the  mantel  on 
which  rests,  under  glass,  a  stuffed  parrot,  and  a  dish 
of  fruit,  highly  colored  save  where  the  paint  has 
been  chipped  away  to  expose  the  white  china  be- 
neath, is  hanging  another  crayon  portrait.  It  is  of 
a  man  whose  sweeping  black  mustache  and  thick 
lips  and  high-colored  cheeks  speak  of  vitality.  He 
is  patently  the  father  of  the  infant  whose  portrait 
reposes  in  the  fat  woman's  lap.  One  sees  that  here 
was  a  man  who  should  have  bred  sons,  whose  ex- 
cesses would  be  pardoned  in  a  world  which  de- 
nounces feminine  frailty.  An  animal  sort  of  man, 
stupid  but  kindly,  and  filled  with  vigor.  He  bred  a 
daughter. 

Mrs.  Smollen  hears  Foyle's  quiet  footstep  and 
looks  up.  She,  too,  has  been  a  vital  person,  though 
flabby  now.  At  sight  of  Foyle  she  lifts  the  crayon 
portrait — an  enlargement  of  a  tin-type — and  presses 
it  to  her  lips,  to  her  bosom. 

"My  baby  girl,"  she  says. 

Foyle  puts  an  arm  around  her  stout  neck. 
"You've  been  so  brave,  Mrs.  Smollen,  that  I  want 
you  to  be  brave  a  little  longer.  Jennie  was  brave, 
wasn't  she?" 

Pride  gleams  in  the  woman's  eyes;  it  is  a  pride 
that  comes  from  generations  who  have  sailed  the 
seven  seas;  the  pride  that  makes  her  keep  up  ap- 
pearances, even  though  they  deceive  nobody. 

"She  was  brave — and  she  was  good,  too,"  she 
says.  "I  ought  to  know.  I  was  her  mother.  It's 
all  right  for  people  to  sniff — there  wasn't  a  mean 
bone  in  Jennie's  whole  body.  Generous — laws,  there 
wan't  no  one  like  her;  give  you  her  last  cent.  Think 


42  A  MORE  HONORABLE   MAN 

she'd  ever  have  bothered  Jim  Willoughby!  She 
didn't  ask  nothing — of  no  one.  It  was  him  went  to 
Lawyer  Sneed,  when  Jennie  woulda  died  before 
she  'd  asked  anyone  for  a  cent — or  anything. ' ' 

She  bursts  into  sudden  tears.  Foyle  soothes  her 
as  a  son  might  have  done. 

"I  guess  there's  other  things  besides  bein'  care- 
ful with  men.  Ain't  there?"  she  asks. 

Foyle  considers  a  moment.  "I'd  say  that  the 
least  important  thing,  to  God,  is  what  we  do  with 
our  bodies.  It's  our  hearts  that  count,  Mrs. 
Smollen." 

* '  God ! ' '  she  ejaculates.  ' '  If  only  all  men  was  like 
you.  And  women,  too.  Jennie — I  ain't  fool  enough 
to  say  she  didn't  know  better;  she  did.  Lots  better. 
I  taught  her.  But  she  was — alive.  Seems  a  funny 
thing  to  say,  but — she'd  'a'  been  a  better  mother,  if 
she'd  lived — her  and  her  baby — than  any  girl  I've 
ever  known.  You  see,  what  Jennie  wanted  was  some 
sort  of  purpose.  That's  all.  She  was  easy  flattered 
and — my  girl  was  a  good  girl." 

"My  wife  was  a  good  girl,"  says  Foyle  softly. 

She  looks  up  at  him;  so  may  some  suffering 
mother,  in  ancient  times,  have  looked  at  a  prophet. 

"Your  wife.  God!"  Her  ejaculation  is  not  pro- 
fane: it  is  reverent.  "When  Jennie  told  me — I 
couldn't  believe  it.  You  doing  that  for  her,  her  that 
you  hardly  knew.  And  yesterday  I  hear  talk  that 
they're  gabbin'  because  you  ain't  here  with  her.  I 
spoke  my  mind.  I  told  them  about  how  you  been 
sick  yourself,  and  couldn't  come.  Three  months  in 
a  hospital  and  them  gassin'  because  you  ain't  doin' 
your  duty.  Duty !  What  do  they  know  about  duty? 
Talkin'  about  you — you  that — " 


A  MORE  HONORABLE   MAN  43 

She  slides  suddenly  from  the  chair;  her  stout 
arms  go  around  his  knees  and  she  abases  herself. 
"My  little  girl!  She's  dead,  yes.  But  she  begun 
to  understand,  from  the  moment  you  came  to  her. 
I  don't  believe  she  ever  told  you.  She  couldn't. 
But  to  me — when  she  knew  that  you'd  given  her  a 
name,  and  that  her  baby — she  talked  like  you  was 
God,  Sam  Foyle.  You  saved  her  soul,  you  did,  Sam 
Foyle.  And  God  knows  why.  She  was  nothin'  to 
you;  you  was  nothin'  to  her.  Until  you  married 
her.  And  then — Sam  Foyle,  if  she'd  'a'  lived,  and 
you  wanted  her  to  come  to  you,  she'd  'a'  come 
walkin'  on  her  knees — " 

"And  now  she's  happy,  and  you  aren't  to  cry  any 
more,  mother,"  says  Foyle. 

He  lifts  her,  places  her  in  the  rocking-chair  again. 
For  all  her  great  bulk  he  handles  her  as  though  she 
were  an  infant.  Embarrassment  appears  in  his  eyes. 

"I — the  undertaker — he  didn't  feel  like  trusting 
me,  mother,"  he  says.  "So — I  haven't  any  money, 
just  now.  But  in  a  few  weeks — " 

Spirit  returns  to  the  dejected  mother.  "I've 
made  my  way  since  my  husband  died,"  she  declares, 
"and  I  won't  be  beholdin'  to  you,  Sam  Foyle.  Not 
that  it  ain't  plain  noble  of  you  to  offer  to  help,  but 
— I  don't  need  it.  If,  some  time,  you  make  a  lot  of 
money,  and  want  to  put  a  stone  over  Jennie — " 

He  pats  her  tear-stained  face.  "It  will  be  done," 
he  says. 

A  little  later  he  leaves  her.  He  walks  as  far  as 
Main  Street  and  there  he  hesitates  for  a  moment. 
Men  see  him  but  do  not  speak.  In  the  quaint  and 
lovely  fashion  of  a  New  England  village,  they  lift 
their  hats  to  him ;  he  has  been  bereaved ;  this  is  their 


44  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

tribute  to  his  black  clothes.  His  hesitation  passes. 
His  broad  mouth  twists  in  a  whimsical  smile,  and  he 
mounts  the  hill  toward  the  mansion  that  used  to  be 
known  as  the  Blake  house,  but  now  is  called  the 
Willoughby  Place. 

As  he  reaches  the  gate  the  clock  on  the  Unitarian 
Church  tower  strikes  noon.  He  is  vaguely  bewil- 
dered. So  much  has  happened  since  his  arrival  at 
seven  this  morning.  He  places  his  hand  on  the 
latch,  then  withdraws  it.  The  Magnificent  has 
opened  the  front  door  and  is  walking  rapidly  down 
the  walk.  Even  a  stranger  might  have  sensed  the 
embarrassment  in  his  manner. 

Foyle  lifts  a  hand.  " Don't  bother  to  explain,  old 
man,"  he  says. 

The  Magnificent  stares  at  him.  "How  do  you 
know  what  I'm  going  to  say?" 

"Ramsey's  a  woman,  isn't  she?"  counters  Foyle. 

"Yes,  but  you're  an  old  friend — " 

Foyle  interrupts.  "She  said,  'I  don't  want  to 
judge  Sam,  but  everyone  knows  that  he  married  that 
girl  simply  because  he  had  to,  and  his  coming  back 
to  her  funeral,  after  practically  deserting  her,  is 
just  a  bid  for  sympathy,  and  I  don't  want  him  in  my 
house.'  That  what  she  said?" 

The  Magnificent  colors.  "I've  told  her,  Sam — 
explained  as  well  as  I  could — Ramsey  is  the  sweet- 
est girl  in  the  world,  but — women  are  women,  hang 
it !  She  says  that  next  time  you're  in  town  she'll  be 
glad  to  have  you.  I  don't  understand." 

Foyle  smiles.  "I  do,"  he  says.  "It's  easier  to 
forget  than  to  forgive.  Give  Ramsey  my  love.  So 
long. ' ' 

He  turns  and  walks  down  Main  Street.    At  The 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  45 

Commercial  House  he  pauses;  he  is  hungry  and 
enters  the  hotel.  He  registers  and  enters  the  din- 
ing-room and  consumes  a  mid-day  meal.  He  tips 
the  waitress  ten  cents — he  has  never  had  the  flair  of 
The  Magnificent — and  leaves  the  room.  He  goes  to 
the  clerk's  desk  to  pay  the  thirty-five  cents  that  is 
the  dinner  charge.  The  clerk  shakes  his  head. 

"Uncle  Frank  says  no  charge  for  you,  Sam,'* 
says  the  clerk. 

"Much  obliged,"  says  Foyle. 

Outside,  on  the  porch,  Uncle  Frank  is  sitting. 
Foyle  approaches  him.  "Thanks  for  the  dinner, 
Uncle  Frank,"  he  says. 

Uncle  Frank  deliberately  spits;  he  eyes  delib- 
erately a  brown  stain  on  the  porch  rail ;  he  is  not  so 
accurate  as  usual  to-day.  Then  he  turns  to  Foyle. 

"Don't  thank  me.  I  wouldn't  touch  your  money. 
That's  all.  Good  afternoon."  He  turns  his  head 
away,  and  ejects  the  fruits  of  the  labors  of  his  jaws 
in  an  uncertain  stream.  The  rail  is  stained  in  the 
vilest  fashion. 

"Why  not,  Uncle  Frank?"  asks  Foyle. 

"Yeller  skunk.  How  much  did  Jim  Willoughby 
pay  you  to  marry  Jennie  Smollen?"  Uncle  Frank's 
mild  blue  eyes  are  wrathful. 

Foyle  smiles.  "You  know  better  than  that, 
Uncle  Frank." 

"Maybe  I  do  and  maybe  I  don't,"  snaps  Uncle 
Frank.  "Don't  lemme  detain  you,"  he  adds,  with 
frigid  politeness. 

"I  won't  stay  a  minute — after  you've  said  you 
didn't  mean  that,  Uncle  Frank,"  says  Foyle. 

Uncle  Frank  heaves  himself  out  of  his  chair. 
' ' Daggone  me  to  a  daggone  old  daggone !  Don't  you 


46  A   MORE    HONORABLE    MAN 

tell  me  what  I'm  to  do  and  what  I  ain't  to  do.  I'll 
say  what  I  want,  when  I  want,  and  to  whoever  I 
want. ' '  His  polka  dot  handkerchief  is  brought  forth 
from  his  rear  trousers  pocket.  He  wipes  his  fore- 
head, apparently.  In  reality  he  wipes  his  eyes. 

"You  come  back  here  without  a  word  to  anyone. 
You  ain't  got  no  money  and  you  don't  come  to  me. 
Ain't  I  been  your  friend  for  years?  Ain't  I  got  any 
rights?  I  brag  about  you,  what  a  smart  feller  you 
are,  for  ten  years,  and  you  marry  a  girl  you  ain't  got 
no  right  to  marry,  and  you  borry  funeral  expenses 
from  someone  else — " 

Foyle  shakes  his  head.  "I  managed  to  do  some 
saving  the  last  few  years,  Uncle  Frank.  I  didn't 
borrow  from  anyone. ' ' 

"Must  have,"  snorts  Uncle  Frank.  "Yeller 
skunk.  Why  the  hell  did  you  marry  Jennie  Smollen? 
Don't  lie  to  me,  young  feller.  I  talked  to  Jennie,  I 
did.  Why?" 

Foyle  stands  there,  making  no  reply.  Uncle 
Frank  glares  at  him.  "Wh/  don't  you  answer  me?" 
demands  Uncle  Frank. 

"I  don't  think  you  have  any  right  to  ask  the  ques- 
tion," says  Foyle. 

"Well,  why  in  hell  didn't  you  have  spunk  enough 
to  say  so  sooner?"  cries  Uncle  Frank.  "Want  any 
money?" 

"A  hundred  dollars  for  a  stone  to  put  over  Jen- 
nie," replies  Foyle. 

"Well,  why  the  hell  didn't  you  say  so  before?" 
demands  Uncle  Frank. 

"You  didn't  give  me  time,"  says  Foyle,  smiling. 

"Yeller  skunk,"  mutters  Uncle  Frank. 


CHAPTER  V 

An  hiatus  here We  have  talked  with  Uncle 

Frank  Dabney;  twice  he  has  said  "yeller  skunk"; 
once  he  meant  it  and  later  changed  his  mind;  the 
second  time  it  seems  that  he  did  not  mean  it  at  all, 
that  pique  inspired  the  bestowal  of  the  title.  As  a 
mirror,  whereby  we  may  observe  the  reflections  of 
others,  Uncle  Frank  seems  somewhat  faulty,  as 
though  the  quicksilver  were  rubbed  off  the  back. 

We  have  listened  to  the  ex-miner  from  Cornwall 
and  have  heard  him  say,  "nought  but  a  damned 
dude."  Yet  the  "dude"  whipped  a  man  in  fair 
fight  immediately  after  the  epithet  was  uttered. 

We  have  learned  that  men  had  planned  to  ride 
Sam  Foyle  upon  a  rail,  and  at  the  moment  when  the 
assault  was  to  have  occurred  we  have  seen  these 
men  lifting  their  hats  to  him  in  respect  for  his  be- 
reavement. 

We  have  seen  what  two  women  thought  of  Foyle ; 
each  drew  conclusions  from  what  seemed  to  be  un- 
assailable evidence,  and  the  conclusions  were  op- 
posed. Suddenly  the  thought  occurs  that  Foyle  is 
as  important  to  the  story  as  The  Magnificent  him- 
self. Perhaps  Foyle  is  another  mirror  whereby  we 
may  seek  to  see  The  Magnificent.  Or  perhaps  The 
Magnificent  is  a  mirror  for  Foyle.  The  interde- 
pendence of  people,  their  tangled  relations,  the  in- 
terwoven meshes  of  their  lives,  the  absurdity  of 

47 


48  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

thinking  that  there  can  be  such  a  thing  as  an  indi- 
vidual  

But  perhaps  as  people  grow  older  their  judgments 
become  sounder.  An  hiatus,  then,  of  eight  years, 
while  our  characters  mature.  The  country  matures 
too ;  at  least  it  grows  bigger ;  its  limbs  are  more  mus- 
cular; its  appetite  is  heartier;  its  ambitions  out- 
grow the  bounds  of  provincialism;  people  know 
more  of  one  another.  It  is  the  bicycle  that  brings 
this  knowledge. 

"The  city  man  is  enabled  to  spend  a  healthful 
holiday  within  sight  and  sound  of  purling  brooks; 
the  farmer  is  enabled  to  visit  the  art  galleries  of  the 
metropolis.  I  tell  you,  gentlemen,  that  the  two 
wheeled  horse  has  done  more  for  mankind  than  any 
invention  in  history. ' ' 

Thus,  at  the  banquet  of  the  board  of  trade  of  Old- 
port,  The  Magnificent.  Pinnacle  has  just  completed  a 
fiscal  year ;  the  company  in  the  year  ending  this  fifth 
of  May,  1898,  has  manufactured  three  hundred  and 
eighty-three  thousand  bicycles.  It  employs  twelve 
hundred  men  and  women;  the  quadrangular  build- 
ing that  seemed  so  large  eight  years  ago  is  dwarfed 
by  the  three  new  structures  that  have  been  erected. 
The  concern  is  now  capitalized  for  five  million  dol- 
lars and  pays  dividends  that  have  made  the  original 
investors  wealthy  beyond  their  dreams. 

Humorless  The  Magnificent  may  sound;  yet  not 
an  eyebrow  is  raised  at  his  boasts.  A  state  gov- 
ernor nods  appreciatively ;  a  senator  will  later  arise 
and  make  the  statements  of  The  Magnificent  seem 
tame.  For  the  nation  has  gone  mad  over  the  "two 
wheeled  horse." 

Good  roads  are  being  made  in  order  that  the 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  49 

farmer  hastening  to  the  art  galleries,  and  the  broker 
racing  to  listen  to  the  purling  brook,  may  achieve 
their  desires  in  the  easiest  fashion.  Every  office 
building  in  the  cities  is  equipped  with  bicycle  racks ; 
stockholders  in  city  transportation  lines  are  becom- 
ing nervous.  Ministers  have  a  new  cause  upon  which 
to  blame  the  immorality  of  the  youth  of  to-day. 

Bloomers!  One  strolls  through  the  city  streets. 
Hips !  Higher  than  their  heads !  All  right  for  men, 
but  how  brazen  of  the  women !  Is  the  hoop  skirt  so 
far  away  that  women  have  forgotten  that  their  most 
important  task  in  life  is  to  disguise  the  fact  that  they 
have  anatomies?  Not  merely  bloomers  but  skin 
tight  breeches!  We  turn  away  in  horror  from  the 
sight  of  these  women  bicyclists,  these  female 
" scorchers."  To  what  dreadful  excesses  will  their 
daughters  descend?  Of  course  we  realize  that  the 
better  class  of  women  blush  at  the  sight  of  their 
frailer  sisters,  but  even  among  this  better  class  we 
hear  whispers  of  divided  skirts.  We  must  take  stern 
measures ;  the  rotten  immorality  of  the  day  must  be 
purged. 

Yet  what  can  we  expect  of  young  girls  so  long  as 
women  are  permitted  to  wear  tights  upon  the  stage? 
Surely  God  will  give  us  some  sign  of  his  disap- 
proval of  the  fin  de  siecle  girl 

Century  runs;  the  League  of  American  Wheel- 
men; Major  Taylor;  Eddie  McDuffee;  the  little 
Welchman,  Jimmy  Michaels ;  Harry  Elkes,  the  pride 
of  Glens  Falls ;  records  falling  every  day ;  tandems ; 
sextuplets;  Michaels  jumping  ahead  of  his  pace; 
if  he  can  do  that  at  the  finish  what  good  is  his  pace  ? 
Can  Murphy  really  ride  a  mile,  behind  a  railroad 
train,  in  less  than  a  minute? 


50 

The  chainless;  the  thousands  that  were  poured 
by  credulous  investors  into  the  coffers  of  the  pro- 
moters of  puncture-proof  tires.  "I  tell  you,  I  seen 
a  big  fat  man  ride  right  over  a  lot  of  tacks  and 
broken  glass  and  never  puncture  a  tire." 

The  health  of  the  race !  Hear  the  doctors !  What 
will  happen  to  the  lungs  of  a  man  who  bends  over  his 
handle  bars  inhaling  the  dust  of  the  road?  Will  the 
spines  of  the  future  generations  be  curved?  What 
will  this  precarious  seat  upon  a  joggling  machine 
do  to  the  delicate  inner  organisms? 

Hear  the  judges !  The  speed-mad  maniacs  who 
race  down  hills  and  knock  over  inoffensive  pedes- 
trians, maiming,  even  killing!  The  laws  should  be 
sternly  enforced.  Shall  we  breed  a  race  contempt- 
uous of  all  legal  restraint? 

Listen  once  again  to  the  clergy.  Hear  them  de- 
plore their  empty  pews.  Watch  them  as  they  draft 
the  Eleventh  Commandment,  "Thou  shalt  not  ride 
thy  bike  upon  the  Sabbath." 

The  end  of  the  century,  and  to  what  is  it  bringing 
us?  Perdition,  answer  the  preachers.  Crime,  say 
the  judges.  Disease,  howl  the  doctors. 

And  through  it  all  the  bicycle  thrives.  And  Pin- 
nacle grows  and  grows.  Guaranteed  tires,  the  light- 
est of  rubber  mud  guards ;  geared  up  to  ninety-six 
if  you  happen  to  be  a  "scorcher,"  and  down  to  sixty- 
eight  if  you  are  an  old  fogie.  Ram's  horn  handle 
bars  or  the  puritanically  upright  ones  recommended 
by  your  family  physician.  A  racing  saddle,  tilted 
rakishly,  or  one  hygienically  designed,  and  highly 
advertised  with  drawings  of  the  pelvis  and  diagrams 
of  the  liver. 

One  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars ;  ninety  dol- 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  61 

lars;  seventy  dollars;  forty-five  dollars!  "Look  at 
it  I  Watch  the  wheels  spin ;  heft  it.  Not  so  light  that 
we've  sacrificed  stren'th,  and  not  so  heavy  that 
you'll  notice  it  goin'  up  a  hill." 

The  Pinnacle  Daisy;  your  wife  couldn't  be  safer 
in  the  old  family  rocking-chair.  The  Pinnacle  Sweet- 
heart; so  named  because  every  girl  ought  to  have 
one.  The  Pinnacle  Monarch;  king  of  the  road.  All 
kinds  of  Pinnacles  from  the  tiny  one  for  little  Rob- 
ert to  the  sedate  one  for  grandma.  Tandems,  too; 
triplets,  quadruplets;  quintuplets;  sextuplets;  and 
the  great  octuplet  that  paced  Eddie  McDuffie  in  one 
of  his  races,  but  that  really  was  more  for  an  adver- 
tisement than  anything  else.  The  crowds  turned  out 
to  watch  the  Pinnacle  team  aboard  the  great  octuplet 
as  it  went  along  the  roads  from  Boston  to  New 
York. 

Clubs  everywhere.  Hardly  a  person  too  poor  to 
own  some  sort  of  wheel.  All  over  the  world ;  revo- 
lutionizing character,  broadening  mankind,  making 
for  that  mutual  acquaintance  which  would  do  so 
much  to  stop  international  jealousies.  Americans 
touring  Europe ;  Europeans  touring  America.  .  .  ,. 

Full  dinner  pails.  Mr.  McKinley  has  put  the 
country  upon  a  sound  financial  basis.  Factories 
belching  smoke.  Warehouses  crammed  with  goods 
to-day  and  emptied  to-morrow  at  the  importunities 
of  buyers.  Growing,  growing. 

"Bustin'  right  out  of  our  pants,"  says  Uncle 
Frank  Dabney.  "Built  an  annex  in  '95.  Built  the 
new  addition  last  year.  Daggone  if  I  don't  have  to 
serve  meals  in  relays.  Same  all  over  the  country.'* 
He  is  still  loyal  to  Navy  Twist,  and  now  bites  off  a 
large  chunk.  He  moves  it  with  his  tongue  into  his 


62  A  MORE   HONORABLE    MAN 

left  cheek.  He  clears  the  rail  of  the  porch  with 
inches  to  spare.  He  leans  back  comfortably  in  his 
chair.  He  has  just  served  the  board  of  trade  ban- 
quet. Peace  descends  upon  him.  Suddenly  he  leaps 
to  his  feet  and  stares  down  Main  Street. 

" What's  the  matter?"  asks  his  companion,  once 
again  the  drummer  for  Perigord's  Soap. 

"Daggone,"  says  Uncle  Frank. 

Up  the  street  is  coming  a  man  in  uniform.  It  is 
not  an  unusual  sight.  This  noon,  at  the  board  of 
trade  dinner,  not  a  speaker  but  referred  to  Dewey, 
not  one  but  laughed  gaily  at  the  temerity  of  the 
Spaniards  in  daring  to  pit  their  effete  civilization 
against  the  mighty  youth  whose  head  rested  in  the 
Great  Lakes,  whose  feet  were  laved  in  the  Gulf, 
whose  right  hand  touched  the  Pacific,  and  whose 
left  playfully  splashed  the  waters  of  the  Atlantic 
into  the  astounded  eyes  of  Europe. 

"To  hell  with  breakfast,  let's  finish  'em  now!" 

When  Dewey 's  gunner  made  that  immortal  re- 
mark— he  had  made  it  only  a  few  hours  ago  and  his 
countrymen  had  not  heard  its  echoes  yet — he  spoke 
the  spirit  of  America.  Why  wait?  Who  the  hell 
were  the  Spaniards?  Who  the  hell  was  anyone? 
Let's  finish  'em  now. 

No,  uniforms  were  not  rare  in  Oldport.  In  fact 
there  was  a  recruiting  station  down  on  Front  Street, 
and  many  a  Pinnacle  workman  had  exchanged  his 
over-alls  for  the  livery  of  his  country.  But  this  man, 
coming  up  the  street,  with  a  somewhat  shambling 
stride,  had  not  been  seen  in  Oldport  for  eight  years. 

Uncle  Frank's  great  body  took  the  steps  from  the 
porch  to  the  sidewalk  in  two  leaps.  The  Navy  Twist 
that  long  experience  should  have  rendered  secure 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  58 

against  any  sudden  movement  slipped  from  its  lodg- 
ment in  his  cheek.  Uncle  Frank  gasped,  sputtered, 
choked.  A  uniformed  arm  rose  and  descended 
heavily,  driving  a  broad  hand  thumpingly  between 
the  shoulder  blades  of  mine  host  of  The  Commercial 
House.  The  Navy  Twist  shot,  in  a  compact  ball, 
half  way  across  the  street. 

"Got  me  so  daggone  excited  you  made  me  lose  my 
chaw,"  complained  Uncle  Frank. 

"I'll  buy  you  another,"  said  the  uniformed  man. 

His  arm  now  encircled  the  great  shoulders  of 
Uncle  Frank;  beneath  the  pressure  Uncle  Frank 
squirmed  uneasily.  From  his  trousers  pocket,  rear, 
he  draws  a  handkerchief.  It  is  a  polka  dot;  Uncle 
Frank  was  born  a  conservative.  "Made  me  get 
juice  all  over  my  chin,"  he  says.  But  he  wipes  his 
eyes.  Sometimes  it  seems  that  Uncle  Frank  is 
rankly  sentimental. 

"What  the'  dickens  you  doin'  in  Oldport,  Sam 
Foyle?"  Uncle  Frank  demanded. 

"Captain  Foyle,  please,"  replied  the  officer. 

"Daggone!"  said  Uncle  Frank.  "How'd  you  do 
it?" 

"Been  in  the  militia  out  in  Ohio  for  three  years," 
explained  Foyle. 

"Ohio?  Thought  you  went  to  Boston.  Whyn't 
you  write  me,  anyway?" 

"Nothing  to  say,"  said  Foyle. 

"Is  that  the  way  to  treat  a  friend,"  demanded 
Uncle  Frank.  "I  got  a  check  for  a  hundred  dollars 
from  you  and  that's  the  last  I  ever  heard.  That 
was  six  years  ago.  I  suppose  you've  made  so  much 
money  practising  law  that  you've  been  too  proud  to 
keep  in  touch  with  poor  folks." 


54  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

Foyle  grinned.  "I  haven't  made  any  money  at 
all,  Uncle  Frank." 

''Same  thing.  Too  proud  to  let  me  help  you. 
Teller  skunk."  But  there  was  something  in  his 
voice  that  took  away  the  barb  of  his  words.  *  *  Cap- 
tain Foyle,"  he  said.  He  lingered  over  the  title, 
mouthing  it  as  though  it  were  as  delectable  to  the 
taste  as  his  beloved  Navy  Twist. 

"What  you  doing  here?"  he  asked. 

"I've  been  doing  recruiting  work  in  Boston,"  ex- 
plained Foyle.  "To-morrow  we  entrain  for  Tampa, 
and,  I  hope,  Cuba.  Took  a  day  off  to  run  up  and 
say  howdy." 

Uncle  Frank  returned  to  his  grievance.  "Mrs. 
Smollen  told  me  about  you  once  in  a  while  until  she 
moved  away,  and  then  I  lost  track  of  you  completely. 
Are  you  a  lawyer?" 

"Admitted  three  years  ago.  I've  been  practising 
in  Cincinnati,  and  not  doing  very  well, ' '  said  Foyle. 
"I've  been  thinking  that  I'd  come  back  here  after 
the  war.  You  know  you  promised  to  make  a  judge 
of  me. ' ' 

"Daggoned  if  I  don't,"  exclaimed  Uncle  Frank. 
"And  if  I  can't,  Jim  Willoughby  can." 

"How  is  Jim?"  asked  Foyle. 

"Speaking  of  angels,"  said  Uncle  Frank. 
"Look." 

Out  from  The  Commercial  House,  where  he  had 
lingered  to  talk  business  with  several  people,  came 
The  Magnificent.  Uncle  Frank  put  his  arm  in  pro- 
prietary fashion,  about  the  waist  of  Sam  Foyle. 

"Look  who's  here,"  he  cried. 

Willoughby  took  the  steps  at  a  bound.  There 
were  handshakings,  back  slappings,  gentle  curses  of 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  55 

delight.  Captain  Foyle  must  come  right  up  to  the 
house  and  see  Junior  and  little  Robert.  The  two 
sturdiest,  handsomest  kids  in  the  world.  Uncle 
Frank,  exacting  a  promise  that  Foyle  would  have 
supper  with  him,  permitted  his  departure.  Up  Main 
Street,  halted  every  few  steps  by  patriots  who  must 
show  their  regard  for  an  old  acquaintance  become  a 
defender  of  his  flag,  Foyle  and  The  Magnificent 
made  their  way.  At  the  gate  of  the  Willoughby 
place  Foyle  paused. 

"Remember  the  last  time  I  was  here,"  he  said. 

"It's  all  right  now.  Ramsey  will  be  delighted  to 
see  you,"  The  Magnificent  assured  him.  "What  do 
you  think  of  the  way  I  fixed  up  the  house?" 

The  iron  deer  and  dogs  were  gone.  The  cupola 
had  been  raised.  A  glassed  conservatory  had  been 
added. 

"It  looks  fine,"  said  Foyle  heartily.  "You've 
done  well,  Jim." 

" Thirty- three  and  worth  over  two  millions,"  said 
The  Magnificent.  "Pinnacle  is  a  great  concern. 
I'll  hate  to  quit  it." 

"Quit  it?"    Foyle  was  amazed.    "Why?" 

The  Magnificent 's  eyes  took  on  a  speculative  ex- 
pression. "I've  got  about  as  far  as  I  can  get  with 
the  bicycle,"  he  said.  "The  fact  is,  Sam,  I'm  not 
sure  that  the  bicycle  will  last  much  longer." 

"What  will  take  its  place?"  demanded  Foyle. 

'  *  Have  you  heard  anything  about  the  experiments 
with  the  horseless  carriage?"  asked  The  Magni- 
ficent. 

"Something,"  admitted  Foyle. 

"I've  been  studying  it,"  said  The  Magnificent. 
"Let's  sneak  around  the  back  way  where  Ramsey 


56  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

won't  see  us,  and  get  up  to  my  study,  and  I'll  show 
you  some  drawings." 

"But  I  want  to  see  Ramsey  and  the  children,"  ex- 
postulated Foyle. 

The  Magnificent  had  been  perfunctory  in  his  boast 
of  his  children,  in  his  references  to  his  wife.  He 
had  shown  real  enthusiasm  when  he  mentioned  the 
horseless  carriage.  Now  the  enthusiasm  disap- 
peared from  his  face  and  voice.  He  was  perfunc- 
tory again  as  he  had  been  when  he  had  congratu- 
lated Foyle  on  his  uniform. 

"All  right,"  he  agreed  politely. 

He  led  the  way  into  the  house.  Eamsey  came  to 
the  living  room  at  his  call.  She  stood  for  a  moment 
on  the  threshold  of  the  room,  staring  at  the  tall  man 
in  the  uniform.  Her  hair  was  as  beautiful  and 
blonde  as  it  had  been  eight  years  ago;  her  eyes 
seemed  if  anything  more  deeply  violet ;  motherhood 
had  lent  a  gracious  roundness  to  her  proud  fig- 
ure. Something  seemed  to  grip  Foyle 's  heart  as 
he  looked  at  her.  He  felt  himself  grow  white, 
and  then  felt  the  blood  come  racing  back  to  his 
cheeks. 

"Sam,"  she  cried. 

She  came  to  him,  holding  out  her  hand. 

The  Magnificent  laughed  genially.  "The  women 
always  love  a  hero,"  he  said.  "I'd  have  enlisted 
myself,  only  Ramsey  wouldn't  let  me." 

"Of  course  I  wouldn't,"  exclaimed  his  wife. 
"Everyone  knows  that  you  wanted  to  go,  but  you're 
a  married  man  with  children.  The  country  doesn't 
need  you." 

The  Magnificent  waited  until  Foyle  and  his  wife 
had  exchanged  half  a  dozen  platitudes,  and  until  the 


A  MORE   HONORABLE    MAN  67 

children  had  been  exhibited.  Then,  restless,  he  de- 
manded that  Foyle  come  to  his  study. 

"I  won't  let  him,"  said  Ramsey.  "I  want  to  talk 
to  him  myself. ' ' 

The  Magnificent  looked  at  his  watch.  "Well,  I 
think  I'll  get  down  to  the  office,  then,"  he  an- 
nounced. "Drop  in  to  see  me  later,  Sam." 

The  kiss  that  he  bestowed  upon  his  wife  was  per- 
functory. The  handshake  that  he  gave  to  Foyle  was 
meaningless.  Here  was  a  man  so  wrapped  in  af- 
fairs that  he  had  little  time  for  humanity. 

Alone  with  Ramsey,  Foyle  seemed  to  detect  a 
certain  sadness  in  her  eyes.  Yet  her  voice  was  gay 
as  they  chatted  of  old  times.  Not  until  he  was  leav- 
ing did  she  become  serious. 

Then,  "Eight  years  ago  I  wouldn't  see  you, 
Sam,"  she  said.  "I've  learned  the  truth  since." 

"That's  all  right,  Ramsey,"  he  told  her. 

Suddenly  her  coolness,  the  coolness  that  made  the 
unseeing  think  her  "standoffish,"  left  her.  She  was 
warm,  emotional. 

"Sam,"  she  said,  "You  never  asked  me  to  marry 
you,  but  I  knew. ' ' 

His  face  was  white.  "Of  course  you  did,  Ram- 
sey." 

"I  didn't  love  you,"  she  told  him. 

His  broad  mouth  twisted  in  his  whimsical  grin. 
With  an  unsteady  hand  he  smoothed  his  unruly  black 
hair.  "Of  course  you  didn't,  Ramsey." 

"I  don't  love  you  now,"  she  went  on. 

"Well,  of  course  not,"  he  cried  in  surprise. 

Her  voice  became  dull.  "I  am  married  to  a  mil- 
lionaire ;  he  is  going  to  be  one  of  the  richest  men  in 
the  world.  He  is  infinitely  kind  to  me  and  to  our 


68  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

children — when  he  thinks  of  us.  I  love  him,  Sam. 
But  I  was  unjust  to  you  eight  years  ago.  I  didn't 
love  you  then;  I  don't  love  you  now.  Sam,  I  wish 
that  I  had ;  I  wish  that  I  did. ' ' 

He  was  thinking  of  those  words  of  hers  when  the 
bullet  of  a  half  starved  undersized  Spanish  boy 
struck  him,  six  weeks  later,  as  he  crossed  a  Cuban 
swamp. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  large,  sumptuous  lady ;  sables  are  heaped  upon 
her  shoulders ;  rustling  silks  adorn  her  ample  form ; 
diamonds  gleam  from  her  hair  (we  suspect  that  it 
has  been  retouched) ;  pearls  shimmer  from  her 
plump  neck ;  rubies  sparkle  from  her  manicured  fin- 
gers ;  perhaps  her  corsets  are  a  shade  too  tight,  but 
she  breathes  easily,  freely,  lifting  her  capacious 
bosom  somewhat  haughtily.  Watch  her  driving 
down  Fifth  Avenue ;  behold  the  obsequiousness  with 
which  porters  of  the  great  stores  and  the  banks 
salaam  before  her.  Observe  also,  if  you  will,  the 
winks  that  are  exchanged  when  her  back  is  turned ; 
note  the  shrugs  of  disdain;  the  vulgar  whisper  in- 
sults. 

See  the  flush  of  shame  upon  her  countenance  as 
she  overhears  these  mutterings,  as  in  a  mirror  she 
glimpses  the  winks  and  shrugs.  Ah,  what  is  wealth 
when  one  must  live  a  life  of  infamy? 

Hear  her  sobs  as  she  talks  with  her  lover  that 
evening  in  their  magnificent  home  overlooking  the 
Park.  Her  pleadings  would  soften  a  heart  of  stone. 
" Marry  me,"  she  cries.  "For  the  sake  of  our 
children,  give  me  a  name ! ' ' 

Here  is  a  liaison  that  has  endured  for  decades. 
Long  usage  has  dignified  it  and  rendered  it  honor- 
able. The  lady  is  Politics;  the  gentleman  is  Busi- 
ness. Shortly  after  the  Civil  War  these  two  came 
together.  At  first  there  were  stolen  meetings,  but 

m 


60  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

little  by  little  they  became  bolder,  or  perhaps  their 
passion  became  more  irresistible.  But  as  both  pros- 
pered the  necessity  for  secrecy  seemed  less  vital. 
Kings  flaunt  their  mistresses  before  the  world ;  shall 
the  modern  king,  Business,  have  fewer  and  lesser 
privileges?  Shall  an  outworn  morality,  a  cheap 
prejudice,  prevent  the  gentleman  from  doing  rightly 
by  his  lady? 

Out  of  this  mating,  illicit  though  it  may  have 
been,  have  sprung  the  brilliant  children,  Imperialism 
and  Expansion.  Shall  these  handsome  children  be 
denied  access  to  society?  Shall  Mugwumpery  and 
Provincialism  hold  the  keys  to  decent  society,  or 
shall  a  newer  society  supersede  the  outgrown  one? 

Ah,  what  a  wedding  was  there,  when  the  slick  city 
man  did  rightly  by  our  Nell!  Our  darling  Nell, 
goddess  of  ten  mil  linn  homes !  For  is  not  every 
American  youth  taught  in  the  cradle  his  presiden- 
tial potentialities?  Does  not  every  American 
maiden  in  her  dreams  dispense  the  hospitality  of 
the  White  House? 

Mark  Hanna  kissed  the  bride;  Reed  and  Foraker 
and  others  of  the  newer  clergy  blessed  the  ceremony. 
Mr.  McKinley,  broadminded  gentleman  that  he  was, 
refused  to  listen  to  the  lurid  tales  of  the  lady's  past. 
Divines  from  every  pulpit  sang  the  praises  of  the 
wedding.  Only  a  few  nasty-minded  people,  and 
these  for  the  most  part  ignorant  laborers,  stupid 
philosophers,  and  cranky  reformers,  sneered  at  the 
happy  couple  and  said  that  the  lady  still  kept  the 
bawdy  ways  of  her  girlhood. 

But  who  were  these  as  compared  with  church  and 
state  and  finance?  Especially  finance,  whose  tem- 
ples held  the  real  congregations  of  the  righteous? 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  61 

After  all,  a  man's  a  man  and  there's  no  use  ex- 
pecting him  to  live  like  a  nun.  He  has  to  have  his 
fling,  and  if  in  the  course  of  his  fling  he  has  given 
hostages  to  fortune,  why  blame  the  children?  Look 
at  Cuba;  those  Spaniards  never  could  have  de- 
veloped Cuba  rightly;  we'll  give  them  a  helping 
hand  and  a  good  market.  There's  Porto  Rico; 
watch  her  thrive  once  she  gets  good  roads  and 
sewers.  Look  at  the  Philippines;  do  you  mean  to 
say  those  people  aren't  better  off  under  our  benevo- 
lent protection  than  when  they  were  always  fighting 
with  the  Spaniards  and  themselves?  It's  all  very 
well  to  disapprove  of  liaisons,  but  doggone  it,  when 
the  man  has  made  a  lot  of  money,  and  the  woman  be- 
haves herself  and  they've  raised  two  fine  citizens 
like  Imperialism  and  Expansion,  there's  no  sense  in 
being  narrow-minded.  Anyway,  the  best  people 
invite  the  couple  to  dinner,  and  if  you  go  to  their 
house  you'll  see  their  marriage  certificate  hanging 
on  the  wall.  Besides,  we're  a  young  country  and  it 
doesn't  do  to  be  too  fussy.  Are  you  going  to  the 
party  that  Mrs.  Politics-Business  is  giving  next 
Tuesday  night?  I  hear  there  are  going  to  be  seven- 
teen courses  and  eight  kinds  of  champagne 

Let  us  be  just;  the  lady  had  no  intention  of  de- 
bauching her  friends;  she  was  too  proud  of  the 
respectability  which  she  had  lately  achieved.  But 
here  was  a  simple  society,  unused  to  seventeen 
courses  and  eight  kinds  of  champagne.  Pimples 
appeared  on  the  faces;  gout  swelled  the  feet;  indi- 
gestion attacked  the  stomach;  livers  hardened,  and 
here  and  there  an  artery  grew  brittle.  Gorged  and 
obese,  like  an  over-fed  goose  fattened  for  the  mar- 
ket  Physicians  fingered  the  nation's  pulse. 


62  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

Too  much  to  eat  and  too  much  to  drink ;  insufficient 
mastication  of  chunks  of  nutriment  bitten  off  too 
largely  and  too  hastily;  maybe  this  wedding  wasn't 
such  a  darned  fine  thing  after  all. 

A  new  man  in  the  White  House;  when  we  legiti- 
mized our  two  handsome,  natural  offspring,  perhaps 
we  didn't  realize  that,  due  to  careless  upbringing, 
they  might  have  formed  undesirable  acquaintances. 
These  acquaintances  seem  to  involve  us  in  all  sorts 
of  unforeseen  and  surprising  difficulties;  we  have 
interests  all  over  the  world,  and  these  interests  seem 
to  require  troops,  navies;  we  bristle;  we  seem  to 
have  become  rather  touchy. 

But  the  marriage  has  been  sanctioned.  Our  darl- 
ing Nell  has  an  honest  name;  let's  make  the  best  of 
her  children  and  her  children's  deeds.  But,  now 
that  Nell  has  a  name,  it's  absurd  for  her  to  pretend 
that  a  fat  old  woman  like  her  can  possibly  still  feel 
the  pangs  of  love.  Justice  has  been  done  her;  let 
her  keep  her  honest  name  and  her  dower  rights,  but 
let  her  not  do  it  again.  Let  her  get  a  decent  divorce, 
quietly  and  with  dignity;  we  don't  expect  her  to 
retire  to  a  convent,  and  if  she  accidentally  runs 
across  her  ex-iover,  we  don't  mind  them  drinking  a 
cup  of  tea  together,  but  let  it  end  there. 

* '  It  makes  me  laugh, ' '  says  Uncle  Frank  Dabney. 
"Here  we  bawl  hell  out  of  politics  because  she  flies 
around  with  business,  and  give  business  hail  Colum- 
bia because  he  sneaks  off  to  keep  a  date  with 
politics.  Then  they  live  openly  together  and  every- 
body's satisfied.  For  a  while.  Now  times  ain't  so 
good  and  we're  blaming  it  on  the  couple.  That'd  be 
all  right  only  we're  telling  business  to  look  out  for 
politics  and  see  that  she's  a  good  girl." 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  63 

He  is  sitting  on  the  veranda  of  the  Willoughby 
mansion.  His  vast  chest  and  stomach  are  armored 
by  a  stiff  white  shirt ;  the  white  tie  around  his  stand- 
ing collar  is  slightly  askew ;  the  collar  itself  is  wilted 
by  honest  sweat;  the  tails  of  his  evening  coat  are 
folded  across  his  plump  knees.  These  are  his  con- 
cessions to  the  prosperity  of  The  Magnificent  and  to 
his  own  enlarged  stature  in  the  public  eye.  For  be  it 
known  that  Uncle  Frank  has  acquired  property  in 
addition  to  The  Commercial  House,  that  he  has 
interests  in  many  diverse  affairs. 

The  Magnificent  frowns.  "Politics  are  rotten, 
Uncle  Frank,"  he  declares.  "The  decent  sentiment 
of  every  community  is  against  the  boss.  He  has  to 
go." 

"I  guess,  all  things  considered,  the  best  policeman 
is  a  reformed  burglar,"  says  Uncle  Frank.  "But 
daggone  it,  how  you  goin'  to  know  that  he  is 
reformed?" 

'  *  Unquestionably, ' '  says  The  Magnificent, ' ( things 
have  been  done  in  the  last  twenty  or  thirty  years 
that  were  wrong.  Nevertheless,  the  times  justified 
them.  We  wouldn't  have  our  great  and  prosperous 
nation  if  the  men  of  genius  had  been  compelled  to 
explain  every  move  they  made  to  a  suspicious  and 
bigoted  populace.  The  people  let  themselves  get 
under  the  control  of  venal  politicians;  these  politi- 
cians hampered  every  public-spirited  work  under- 
taken by  our  great  men.  I  '11  grant  that  ethically  it 
might  have  been  better  if  the  great  financiers  and 
merchants  had  refused  to  deal  with  the  bosses ;  but, 
if  they  had  refused,  progress  would  have  been 
delayed  for  years.  The  people  cannot  be  led ;  they 
must  be  driven.  Which  is  better  worth  while;  a 


64  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

railroad  whose  building  gives  employment  to  thou- 
sands, and  whose  accomplishment  opens  up  new 
territories  that  will  house  and  feed  millions,  all  of 
this  secured  by  what  may  be  crudely  termed  bribery ; 
or  an  undeveloped  territory,  lying  barren  because 
the  financier  refuses  to  deal  with  the  political 
boss?" 

"I  ain't  arguin'  against  all  that,"  says  Uncle 
Frank.  "I'm  simply  sayin'  that  it  looks  funny  to 
me  that  when  it  comes  to  a  question  of  political 
reform  the  rich  are  always  found  at  the  same  table. ' ' 

"They're  wiser;  they  understand  what  is  to  the 
public  interest, ' '  retorts  The  Magnificent. 

"And  they  never  lose  no  money  by  their  under- 
standing," laughs  Uncle  Prank. 

From  the  usual  trousers  pocket  he  brings  forth  a 
plug  of  Navy  Twist,  He  eyes  it  f rowningly,  seeming 
to  lack  his  old  ingenuous  delight  in  it.  '  *  Daggone  if 
they  make  anything  the  way  they  used  to,"  he 
grumbles.  ' '  Here  they  put  a  tax  on  tobacco  to  help 
pay  the  expenses  of  the  war  with  Spain,  and  the 
tobacco  people  ain't  content  with  reducing  the  size 
of  the  plug — they  adulterate  the  tobacco.  It  ain't 
right. ' '  He  bites  off  a  chew. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  for  a  man  as  successful  as 
you  are,  you  do  a  lot  of  grumbling,"  smiles  The 
Magnificent. 

It  is  a  summer  evening  and  the  screens  keep  out 
the  insects;  therefore  the  electric  lights  are  turned 
on,  and  Uncle  Frank  can  see  his  host  clearly.  He 
studies  The  Magnificent.  He  sees  a  man  who,  in 
this  early  September  day  of  1904,  looks  older  than 
his  thirty-nine  years  warrant.  His  blonde  hair  has 
receded  until  the  crown  of  his  head  gleams  whitely 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  65 

beneath  the  lights.  There  are  innumerable  fine 
wrinkles  at  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  and  deep  fur- 
rows appear  horizontally  across  his  forehead.  When 
he  frowns  his  eyebrows  gather  together  and  there 
are  vertical  furrows  crossing  the  others.  The  shape 
of  his  mouth  has  changed  in  recent  years ;  the  lower 
lip  has  retained  its  fullness,  but  the  upper  lip  seems 
to  have  thinned  and  lengthened.  The  mouth  is  still 
sensuous  but  seems  to  have  acquired  a  new  and 
stronger  tenacity.  The  chin  and  jaws  are  still  lean 
and  bony.  His  figure  is  still  slim. 

"Successful?  That  depends  on  what  success 
means,"  says  Uncle  Frank.  "I  suppose  you  con- 
sider yourself  pretty  successful ! ' ' 

There  seems  to  be  something  questioning,  almost 
challenging,  in  his  tone.  The  Magnificent  looks  at 
him  with  faint  surprise.  "I  got  five  million  cash 
when  I  sold  out  my  interest  in  Pinnacle  last  year," 
he  says.  "I  wouldn't  take  three  million  for  securi- 
ties I  own  besides  that  five  million.  And  my  auto- 
mobile company  will  make  me  as  much  as  Pinnacle 
did  and  in  less  time.  If  that  isn't  success,  what  is?" 
he  demands. 

"I  dunno,"  replies  Uncle  Frank.  "How's 
Ramsey?" 

"Last  letter  she  wrote  me  said  she  was  having  a 
wonderful  time.  Junior  speaks  French  beautifully 
and  Robert  does  almost  as  well." 

Uncle  Frank  forgets  that  this  is  not  the  porch  of 
The  Commercial  House  and  is  screened  in;  he 
apologizes  for  the  forgetfulness  that  mars  the 
screen.  "I  oughta  quit  chewin',"  he  declares. 

The  Magnificent  likes  Uncle  Frank;  he  waves 
aside  the  apology. 


66  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

"Still,"  says  Uncle  Frank,  "if  I  had  a  couple  of 
kids,  I'd  rather  hear  'em  say  'Daddy'  in  plain 
American,  than  in  all  the  languages  of  Europe." 

"Oh,  they're  doing  very  well  abroad,"  smiles  The 
Magnificent.  "And  they'll  be  back  next  week." 

"It's  about  a  year  and  a  half  since  you've  seen 
them,  ain't  it?"  asks  Uncle  Frank. 

"No,  you  forget  that  I  went  to  England  last  year 
on  business.  I  had  three  days  in  Paris  with  them, 
then." 

"That's  right,"  says  Uncle  Frank.  He  changes 
the  subject  abruptly.  "Let's  get  back  to  what  we 
were  talking  at  supper."  Even  the  donning  of 
evening  dress  cannot  make  Uncle  Frank  term  the 
evening  meal  ' '  dinner. ' ' 

"All  right,"  says  The  Magnificent.  "It  gets 
down  to  this.  You'll  grant  that  I  haven't  made 
many  business  mistakes  so  far." 

Uncle  Frank  nods  assent.  He  stops  himself  just 
in  time  and  rising  heavily  opens  the  screen  door. 
Eeturning,  he  sits  down  again. 

"The  bicycle  is  all  through,"  says  The  Mag- 
nificent. "We're  a  nation  of  faddists.  To-morrow 
we'll  have  something  else  driving  us  crazy." 

'  *  Maybe  your  automobile  will  be  only  a  fad, ' '  sug- 
gests Uncle  Frank. 

The  Magnificent  shakes  his  head.  "There's  work 
running  a  bicycle.  The  automobile  is  going  to  be 
easy." 

"Huh!    Get  a  horse,"  scoffs  Uncle  Frank. 

The  Magnificent  smiles.  "Well,  never  mind  that; 
we'll  see  who's  right  later.  Now  I've  had  trouble 
enough  with  the  town  government  in  the  past.  I've 
done  more  for  this  community  than  any  man  in  it. 


A  MORE   HONORABLE    MAN  67 

I  want  to  be  dead  certain  that  when  I  start  the  Wil- 
loughby  Company  I'll  have  no  petty  politicians  but- 
ting in.  I  want  to  be  certain  of  being  let  alone.  I  want 
a  good  reform  government  in  this  town.  I'm  going  to 
do  more  than  merely  start  an  automobile  factory. 
I'm  going  to  take  over  the  electric  light  plant,  and 
several  other  things  in  this  town.  I  don't  want  to 
be  hampered.  I  want  Oldport  to  give  me  the  right 
kind  of  a  charter,  and  I  don't  intend  to  bribe  anyone 
to  get  it.  Oldport  is  a  city  of  fifty  thousand  people 
now.  When  I  started  Pinnacle  about  fifteen  years 
ago  there  were  less  than  ten  thousand  here.  Fifteen 
years  from  now  there  '11  be  a  hundred  thousand  here 
if  I'm  given  the  proper  encouragement." 

Uncle  Frank  shifts  nervously  in  his  chair.  "Get 
to  the  point,"  he  suggests. 

"You  have  a  lot  of  influence,"  says  The  Mag- 
nificent. "Roosevelt  will  carry  the  country  and  the 
state ;  every  Republican  nominee  will  be  swept  into 
office.  I  want  the  right  sort  of  Republican  nomi- 
nated for  mayor  of  Oldport. ' ' 

"You  ain't  suggestin'  that  I  run,  are  you?"  cries 
Uncle  Frank. 

The  Magnificent  smiles.  "I  know  there's  no  use 
in  asking  you.  I  want  Sam  Foyle  nominated. ' ' 

Uncle  Frank  purses  his  lips.  "Never  was  a  nicer 
feller,"  he  says.  "But  he  ain't  very  reasonable." 

"Oh,  I  know  he  has  wild  ideas,"  admits  The  Mag- 
nificent, "but  he's  sound." 

Uncle  Frank  laughs.  "You  ain't  quite  so  candid 
as  you  might  be,  Jim.  You're  sort  of  afraid  that 
even  Teddy  can't  carry  in  the  average  Republican 
in  this  town." 

"Glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  says  Willoughby 


68  A  MORE  HONORABLE   MAN 

sharply.  "I  suspected  as  much,  but  if  you  say  so, 
it's  a  fact.  I  said  I  wanted  the  right  sort  of  Repub- 
lican nominated,  but  I  want  him  to  run  on  a  Fusion 
ticket.  Now  Foyle  is  popular  with  both  parties. 
He's  been  practising  law  here  since  he  came  back 
from  the  war.  The  poor  people  are  strong  for  him; 
the  rich  haven't  anything  against  him.  He's  a  war 
hero;  wounded  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  He  can 
get  both  nominations  or  run  independently.  He'll 
be  elected. 

"You  ain't  seen  much  of  Sam  in  recent  years, 
have  you?"  asks  Uncle  Frank. 

"Not  as  much  as  I'd  like  to,"  says  The  Mag- 
nificent. "Why?" 

"You  think  he's  sound.    He's  pretty  radical." 

The  Magnificent  laughs.  "Let  him  be  as  radical 
as  he  wants ;  the  Board  of  Aldermen  have  a  lot  to 
say  in  the  government  of  this  city." 

Uncle  Frank's  stomach  quivers  as  he  chuckles. 
"There's  several  ways  of  skinning  a  cat,  ain't 

there?" 

The  Magnificent  smiles  faintly.  "I  don't  think  I 
understand  you,  Uncle  Frank." 

Uncle  Frank  rises  and  opens  the  screen  door ;  he 
attends  to  certain  necessary  matters,  then  wipes  his 
mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"A-course  you  don't.  I'm  certainly  a  terrible 
rough-neck  and  I  use  vulgar  language.  Think  of 
talkin'  about  skinnin'  cats  on  a  beautiful  verandy 
like  this." 

He  is  still  chuckling  as  he  enters  The  Commercial 
House  ten  minutes  later. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Let  us,  in  the  interests  of  art,  science,  and  vulgar 
curiosity,  peep  over  Uncle  Frank's  shoulder  as  he 
sits,  writing,  at  his  desk  in  his  private  office  in  The 
Commercial  House.  Or  we  might,  perhaps,  glance 
about  the  room  before  we  peruse  the  private  corre- 
spondence of  Uncle  Frank. 

On  the  wall  is  a  representation  of  waves  breaking 
upon  a  rocky  shore.    Not  merely  is  it  done  in  oils, 
but  it  is  hand-painted.    The  frame  alone  cost  Uncle 
Frank  fourteen  dollars  in  a  Boston  department 
store.    It  would  be  unfair  to  tell  the  price  of  the 
painting  itself,  although  there  must  have  been  at 
least  a  dollar's  worth  of  paint  on  the  canvas.    Op- 
posite hangs  an  enlarged  photograph  of  Mr.  McKin- 
ley.    A  very  thick  red  carpet  is  on  the  floor;  the 
paper  on  the  wall  is  pleasing  to  the  tired  eye,  pre- 
senting a  most  realistic  scene  of  large  and  brilliantly 
colored  butterflies  hovering  over  sturdy  roses  and 
pansies.     There  is  a  couch  in  the  room  whereon, 
when  winter  comes,  Uncle  Frank  may  take  those 
siestas  which  in  summer  he  enjoys  on  the  porch.    It 
is  upholstered  in  a  red  of  the  exact  shade  of  the 
carpet  upon  the  floor.    Uncle  Frank  has,  unquestion- 
ably, the  artistic  sense. 

His  desk  makes  no  pretense  to  beauty,  however, 
but  is  a  plain  roll-top  affair,  and  the  chair  in  which 
he  bestows  his  bulky  form  is  stout  and  strong.  Upon 
the  floor  at  his  right  hand  is  an  article  upon  which 

69 


70  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

has  been  lavished  all  the  imagination  of  a  great 
craftsman.     It  is  a  vessel  cunningly  contrived  of 
hammered  brass;  it  bulges  in  the  middle  and  upon 
this  bulge  is  a  chaste  representation  of  a  satyr  peer- 
ing around  the  trunk  of  a  tree  at  a  nymph.    Above 
the  bulging  belly  of  this  receptacle  is  a  narrow  neck, 
which  opens  out  into  a  generous  mouth,  fully  a  foot 
in  diameter.    Uncle  Frank  has  publicly  boasted  that 
he  can't  miss  it  in  the  dark.    It  is  a  great  comfort  to 
him,  and  is  a  birthday  gift  from  the  kitchen  staff  of 
The  Commercial  House.    Uncle  Frank  makes  use 
of  it  now.    He  eyes  it  almost  affectionately  as  he 
sweetens  his  mouth  with  some  fresh  Navy  Twist. 
He  turns  once  more  to  his  epistolary  task.    His  eyes 
are  almost  buried  in  the  flesh  of  his  cheeks,  and  the 
muscles  of  the  hand  that  hold  his  pencil  are  taut. 
Plainly,  writing  is  an  effort.    He  signs  his  name,  and 
then  gathering  up  the  several  sheets  of  his  long  let- 
ter, begins  to  read  it.    He  makes  it  easy  for  us. 

"Dear  Ned,"  the  letter  begins.  "Well  Ned,  I'm 
glad  to  hear  that  everything  is  going  well  with  you 
and  I  think  you  done  well  in  going  to  California.  I 
think  maybe  this  winter  I'll  take  a  trip  out  to  San 
Diego  and  see  you.  I  ain't  ever  seen  my  nephews 
and  nieces  and  in  particular  I  want  to  see  little 
Frank.  I  suppose  he's  old  enough  to  chew  tobacco 
now  and  I  hope  you  don't  let  him  smoke  them 
stinking  cigarettes.  My  health  is  good  and  I  expect 
I'm  as  able  now  as  I  was  twenty  years  ago.  I  don't 
see  nobody  getting  fresh  with  me  anyway. 

"Well  Ned,  things  don't  change  much  from  year 
to  year  except  that  Oldport  is  a  regular  city  now  and 
help  has  got  so  uppity  that  there's  no  pleasing  them. 
When  you  and  me  was  boys  the  whole  family  helped 


A  MORE   HONORABLE    MAN  71 

buy  us  a  pair  of  pants  and  when  we  got  a  pair  they 
had  to  last  two  or  three  years.  Now  my  cook's  son 
goes  and  charges  his  own  clothes.  And  you  know 
that  what  you  get  on  credit  you  don't  examine  very 
careful  for  fear  the  storekeeper  may  get  offended 
and  change  his  mind.  I  keep  raising  wages  all  the 
time  and  if  I  couldn't  raise  prices  for  meals  and 
rooms  I  don't  know  what  would  happen. 

"Well  Ned,  I  guess  you'll  listen  to  your  big 
brother  next  time.  I  told  you  that  Judge  Parker 
didn't  have  a  chance  and  I  hope  you'll  listen  to  me 
next  time.  Teddy's  election  is  a  good  thing  for  the 
country,  because  we  can't  monkey  around  with  new 
ideas.  They're  bad  for  business. 

"Election  was  pretty  exciting  here.  We  had 
regular  old-fashioned  torch-light  parades,  and  I 
wore  a  rubber  cape  myself  and  marched  at  the  head 
of  a  big  procession.  Roosevelt  carried  the  city  three 
to  one.  But  I  expect  that  a  wooden  Indian  could 
have  beat  Parker  at  that. 

"Well  Ned,  I'm  getting  old.  I'll  be  fifty  next 
March  and  it  don't  seem  to  me  that  I've  got  any  more 
sense  than  when  I  was  fifteen.  And  I'm  sure  that  1 
don't  grow  any  handsomer.  I'd  like  to  know  what 
age  brings  a  man  without  its  laughs.  I  certainly 
get  plenty  of  those  looking  at  people.  But  I  guess 
they  get  as  many  looking  at  me. 

"I've  been  having  a  good  one  lately.  You  know, 
I  sort  of  mix  in  politics  a  little.  Running  a  hotel  I 
sort  of  get  in  touch  with  people  and  kind  of  have  my 
ear  to  the  ground.  Well,  last  September  Jim  Wil- 
loughby  had  me  to  dinner  at  his  house.  Remember 
how  the  other  boys  nick-named  him  The  Magnificent 
years  ago  because  he  always  had  such  big  ideas  ?  It 


72  A  MORE    HONORABLE   MAN 

was  a  joke  at  first,  but  by  and  by  it  became  a  matter 
of  course.  And  when  he  began  making  such  a  big 
success  people  forgot  that  the  nick-name  was  in- 
vented to  make  fun  of  him.  Makes  you  wonder,  his 
success,  if  there's  anything  in  a  name.  For  a  nick- 
name is  as  much  of  a  name  as  the  one  the  minister 
gives  you.  Anyway  he  certainly  lives  magnificently 
with  the  only  butler  this  town  has  ever  seen,  and 
women  all  over  the  place  with  lace  caps  on  their 
heads.  And  he  dresses  up  each  night.  So  did  1 
when  I  ate  up  there. 

"Well  Ned,  The  Magnificent  is  taking  life  pretty 
seriously.  He's  got  more  money  than  a  bank  and 
it's  running  him.  Instead  of  chucking  everything 
overboard  and  taking  a  good  look  at  the  world  he's 
busy  with  new  schemes  to  make  more  money.  But 
you  have  to  respect  him.  He's  got  more  brains  than 
any  man  I  know.  More  vision  too.  I  thought  he 
was  making  a  mistake  when  he  got  out  of  the  bicycle 
business  but  now  I  know  he  was  right.  He's  going 
in  for  automobiles  now  and  when  I  said  to  him  that 
I  didn't  think  people  would  ever  have  enough  money 
to  buy  them  and  run  them,  he  just  laughed.  That 
was  several  years  ago.  He  knew. 

"  'There's  always  a  buyer  for  every  single  thing 
that  can  be  made',  he  said.  There's  a  lot  of  truth  in 
that  Ned.  But  I  don't  envy  him  nothing  but  his 
two  kids.  He's  fond  of  them  too  and  of  Ramsey,  in 
his  way.  But  it  ain't  the  kind  of  a  way  that  a 
woman  wants  to  be  loved,  if  she's  a  real  woman,  or 
that  children  want  to  be  loved.  The  Magnificent 
seems  to  think  that  giving  them  things  is  as  good  as 
giving  them  yourself. 

"Well  to  get  back  to  my  laugh.    The  Magnificent 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  78 

has  a  lot  of  schemes  and  when  you  get  to  dealing  in 
big  affairs  nowadays  you  got  to  know  which  way  the 
political  cat  will  jump.  So  The  Magnificent  wants  a 
trained  cat.  He's  against  corrupt  politics  as  strong 
as  any  man.  But  he  ain't  got  much  faith  in  the 
ability  of  the  people  to  do  the  right  thing  by  them- 
selves. They  need  good  sound  restraining  in- 
fluences, and  The  Magnificent  is  going  to  provide 
them. 

' '  So  because  he  wanted  a  good  government  he  got 
me  and  some  others  to  see  that  Sam  Foyle  was  made 
mayor.  You  remember  Sam,  and  anyway  I've  writ- 
ten you  quite  a  lot  about  him  in  late  years.  I  never 
been  able  to  understand  him.  I  think  myself  he's  as 
brainy  as  Jim  Willoughby.  But  he's  got  a  knack 
for  doing  the  wrong  thing.  Never  could  understand 
why  he  married  that  Smollen  girl.  Neither  could 
anyone  else.  And  since  he  come  back  here  to  prac- 
tise law  he  ain't  built  up  much  of  a  practise.  Does 
too  much  charity  work.  Won't  make  people  pay 
him.  Kind  of  a  radical  in  his  views,  but  so  daggone 
tolerant  that  there  ain't  many  people  suspect  that. 
Always  seems  to  think  that  everybody's  doing  about 
the  best  he  can  and  that  it's  a  shame  to  blame  a  man 
that's  trying. 

"Well,  there's  one  thing  that  I've  always  known 
about  Sam  Foyle.  That  is  that  he's  so  daggone 
honest  that  he  leans  over  backwards.  And  when 
you  get  that  kind  of  a  man  you've  got  hold  of  a 
pretty  stubborn  person.  Everybody  in  town  knows 
that  Sam  is  honest.  But  Jim  Willoughby  didn't 
know  how  honest  he  was.  Not  that  Jim  would  do 
anything  that  wasn't  strictly  legal  and  moral 
enough,  when  it  comes  to  that.  Only  Jim's  ideas  of 


74  A  MORE    HONORABLE   MAN 

morality  are  a  little  different  from  Sam's.  You  see 
Jim  thinks  in  a  big  way  and  when  you  get  thinking 
that  way  you're  liable  to  overlook  little  things.  But 
those  little  things  would  seem  mighty  important  to 
a  man  like  Sam  Foyle, 

"Well  Ned,  I  like  Jim  Willoughby.  A  good,  gen- 
erous fellow.  But  Sam  Foyle 's  father  helped  me  a 
lot  once,  as  you  know,  and  I've  had  a  sneaking  fond- 
ness for  the  boy  always.  Time  and  again  until  I 
found  it  was  no  use  arguing  with  him  I've  tried  to 
get  him  to  plan  his  life  the  way  1  thought  it  ought 
to  be  planned.  I'm  just  getting  old  enough  to  real- 
ize that  everyone  has  to  plan  and  live  his  own  life. 
I'm  getting  old  enough  to  realize  that  Sam  and  Jim 
represent  two  entirely  different  ideas.  Jim  stands 
for  money  in  the  bank,  big  houses,  success.  Sam 
stands  for  what  is  usually  known  as  failure.  It's 
only  lately  looking  at  the  two  of  them  that  I've 
begun  to  wonder  which  is  making  the  success  and 
which  the  failure. 

"Well  Ned,  don't  get  impatient,  I'm  coming  to 
my  laugh.  You  see  Jim  sort  of  figures  that  Sam 
lacks  something.  He  figures  that  Sam  would  like  to 
be  a  millionaire  just  like  himself.  He  thinks  that 
Sam  figures  things  just  the  way  he  does  as  far  as 
he's  able.  He  figures  that  Sam,  being  a  lawyer, 
naturally  has  the  viewpoint  of  the  educated.  He 
thinks  that  Sam  as  mayor  will  approve  of  certain 
things  that  Jim  Willoughby  approves  of.  Jim's 
clever  too.  He's  seen  to  it  that  the  Board  of  Alder- 
men are  men  who  think  his  way.  If  Sam  puts  up  an 
argument  the  Board  of  Aldermen  will  override  him. 
That's  where  my  laugh  comes  in.  I'm  thinking  of 
what  Jim  Willoughby 's  going  to  look  like  and  what 


A  MORE  HONORABLE   MAN  75 

he's  going  to  say  when  he  finds  out  that  all  the  alder- 
men in  the  world  can't  ride  over  Sam  Foyle. 

1  'Maybe  it  ain't  such  a  big  laugh  to  you,  but  to 
me,  knowing  both  these  boys  like  I  do  and  having 
sort  of  got  the  idea  that  they  stand  for  two  contrary 
points  of  view,  it's  funny.  A  good  scrap  is  always 
interesting,  anyway. 

''Tell  little  Frank  for  me  that  if  he  don't  use  to- 
bacco in  any  form  until  he 's  twenty-one  I  '11  give  him 
a  thousand  dollars  and  that  if  he  must  use  it,  let  him 
use  it  like  God  intended  it  to  be  used,  chewed. 
"Your  affectionate  brother, 

"  Frank  Dabney." 

Uncle  Frank  folds  the  letter,  puts  it  in  an  enve- 
lope, and  we  tip-toe  from  the  room.  We  are  as 
puzzled  about  The  Magnificent  and  Sam  Foyle  as 
perhaps  we  have  been  since  we  first  met  them.  But 
Uncle  Frank  has  given  us  a  vague  clue,  which,  fol- 
lowed, may  lead  us  to  some  place  of  understanding. 

Having  spied  upon  a  gentleman's  private  corre- 
spondence, let  us  not  become  suddenly  finicky.  We 
are  here  to  get  certain  facts,  to  consider  them  as 
evidence,  and  finally  to  draw  what  conclusions  we 
may.  Let  such  an  end  justify  any  means !  Where- 
fore let  us  ensconce  ourselves  in  a  corner  of  the 
humble  living-room-study  of  the  Mayor  of  Oldport 
and  look  and  listen. 

The  Mayor  is  dressed  rather  shabbily  for  one 
occupying  his  exalted  position.  The  sleeves  of  his 
jacket  are  shiny  and  there  is  a  patch  upon  one  of 
his  shoes.  Even  on  two  thousand  a  year  a  single 
man  without,  so  far  as  is  known,  any  one  dependent 
on  him,  should  dress  better  than  this,  should  have 


76  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

more  luxurious  surroundings.  Can  it  be  true  that 
the  Mayor  is,  as  is  commonly  rumored,  a  mark  for 
every  hard  luck  story  that  is  told? 

A  corn-cob  pipe  is  in  his  mouth;  this  is  undigni- 
fied; mayors  should  smoke  fat  cigars  with  golden 
bands  around  their  middles.  Yet  he  puffs  with  ap- 
parent enjoyment;  probably  his  tastes  are  uncul- 
tured. 

He  looks  up  from  formidable  looking  documents 
which  lie  upon  a  table  before  him  as  someone  knocks 
upon  the  door.  A  neatly  dressed  woman,  his  house- 
keeper, enters. 

"A  lady  to  see  you,  Mr.  Foyle,"  she  says. 

The  Mayor  sighs.  He  wishes  the  days  had  twice 
as  many  hours.  For  he  has  peculiar  ideas  as  to  the 
relations  that  should  exist  between  a  public  servant 
and  his  employers,  the  people.  Since,  some  months 
ago,  he  took  office,  he  has  denied  himself  to  no  one. 
Only  by  listening  to  the  complaints  of  his  constitu- 
ents can  he  hope  to  do  his  duty  by  them.  But,  fre- 
quently, as  now,  he  wishes  that  there  were  two  of 
him,  in  order  that  he  might  keep  up  with  his  work. 

''Show  her  in,"  he  says,  somewhat  wearily. 

But  the  weariness  departs  from  his  eyes  as  he 
sees,  a  moment  later,  his  visitor.  This  is  no  drab, 
tired-out  mother,  or  wife,  who  wishes  the  Mayor  to 
use  his  influence  with  some  judge  in  order  that  the 
man  of  the  family  may  not  spend  the  next  few  days 
or  months  in  prison.  This  is  Oldport's  proudest 
lady,  and  in  the  Mayor's  eyes  flashes  a  light  of 
something  more,  even,  than  the  respectful  courtesy 
due  to  Mrs.  Ramsey  Willoughby. 

"Am  I  disturbing  you?"  she  asks.  She  raises  a 
gloved  hand ;  the  movement  seems  to  send  fragrance 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  77 

through  the  room.  The  Mayor  could  not  be  expected 
to  know  that  this  perfume  costs  twenty  dollars  an 
ounce.  He  thinks  that  it  is  merely  the  natural  aroma 
of  her  lovely  femininity.  One  suspects  that  the 
Mayor  is  not  what  is  technically  known  as  a  ladies' 
man. 

" Don't  put  your  pipe  away,  Sam,"  she  says.  She 
flashes  upon  him  a  smile  whose  brilliance  has  been 
favorably  commented  upon  at  the  Court  of  St. 
James. 

He  touches  the  gloved  fingers  now,  and  is  con- 
scious of  the  fact  that  his  face  is  very  red.  He  has 
not  realized  that  Ramsey's  hand,  strong  and  capable 
though  it  is,  is  so  much  smaller  than  his  own.  He 
offers  her  a  chair  and  she  sinks  gracefully  into  it. 
Fourteen  years  of  being  a  matron,  and  the  posses- 
sion of  two  half  grown  children,  have  not  robbed 
her  of  a  girlish  grace  of  movement.  Her  figure  is 
more  charming  now  than  on  the  day  she  married 
The  Magnificent,  and  her  face  is  even  more  beauti- 
ful. Intelligence,  and  the  authority  that  comes  with 
it,  have  invested  her  features  with  a  new  allure. 

He  stands  awkwardly  in  front  of  her  until  she  com- 
mands him  to  sit.  "And  I  won't  say  another  word 
until  you  Ve  lighted  your  pipe, ' '  she  threatens. 

He  obeys  her  command.  There  ensue  a  few  min- 
utes of  silence,  while  her  eyes  roam  about  the  shabby 
room.  Perhaps  she  is  contrasting  it  with  the  charm- 
ingly appointed  luxury  of  her  own  home. 

"Sam,"  she  says  suddenly,  "will  you  explain  just 
what  is  the  nature  of  the  impeachment  proceedings 
brought  against  you?" 

The  Mayor  laughs.  "You  read  the  papers,  don't 
you,  Kamseyl" 


78  A  MORE  HONORABLE   MAN 

"I  want  to  hear  your  side  of  it." 

"Well,  the  Oldport  Light  and  Power  Company 
asked  for  a  charter  to  run  a  street  railway  in  the 
city.  The  Board  of  Aldermen  granted  the  charter 
and  I  signed  it.  The  next  day  I  discovered  what  I 
should  have  discovered  earlier:  the  charter  pre- 
vented anyone  else  from  running  any  sort  of  pas- 
senger vehicle  on  streets  given  over  to  the  Power 
Company  to  use  for  its  trolley  cars.  I  immediately 
tried  to  annul  the  charter.  Naturally  trouble  fol- 
lowed. The  Power  Company  didn't  like  it.  They 
had  been  given  an  absolute  monopoly  and  they 
wanted  to  keep  it.  The  general  run  of  the  public 
thought  that  I  was  a  fool.  The  fact  that  many  char- 
ters have  been  granted  to  other  companies  in  other 
cities  with  similar  clauses  in  them  didn't  affect  my 
foolishness.  You  see,  it's  possible  that  some  day 
automobiles  will  do  away  with  trolley  lines.  T 
thought  of  that  too  late.  But  when  I  did  think  of  it 
and  saw  that  under  this  charter  no  automobile  could 
run  and  carry  passengers  without  the  consent  of  the 
Power  Company,  I  did  what  I  could  to  remedy  my 
error.  So,  it  wasn't  difficult  for  political  opponents 
to  work  up  sentiment  against  me." 

"Do  you  know  that  if  you  withdrew  the  annul- 
ment proceedings,  the  impeachment  proceedings 
would  be  dropped?"  she  asks. 

His  mouth  twists  in  his  familiar  grin.  "It's  a 
funny  thing,  Ramsey,  that,  while  the  impeachment 
proceedings  were  started  by  a  labor  organization 
which  accused  me  of  incompetence  and  neglect  of 
duty,  all  the  offers  to  stop  the  impeachment  have 
come  from  persons  of  wealth,  interested  in  the 
Power  Company." 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  79 

She  flushes.    "I'm  not  making  an  offer,  Sam." 

He  colors,  too.  "I  didn't  mean  that,  Eamsey," 
lie  says  hastily. 

She  pays  no  heed  to  his  disclaimer.  "I  don't  sup- 
pose there's  any  chance  of  your  withdrawing,  Sam. 
I  only  came  down  here  because  I  wanted  you  to 
know  that  Jim  has  done  everything  possible  to  stop 
this  impeachment.  But  he  isn't  the  only  big  man 
interested  in  the  Power  Company,  and  the  rest 
won't  listen  to  him.  He  doesn't  know  that  I'm  down 
here  to-night.  He  doesn't  know  that  I  know  what  I 
have  just  told  you.  I  overheard  him  arguing  with 
some  of  the  others." 

Foyle  laughs.  "He  wouldn't  like  it  if  he  knew 
that  you  were  here,  Ramsey.  If  I  should  subpoena 
you  to  say  at  my  trial  what  you've  said  now,  I'd 
win. ' ' 

"Would  you  do  that?"  she  asks. 

* '  Do  you  think  I  would  I "  he  counters. 

"I  know  you  wouldn't,"  she  says.  "But  you  do 
believe  me?  You  believe  that  Jim  has  done  all  that 
he  can  do?" 

"Of  course  I  do,"  replies  Foyle. 

She  looks  at  him  uncertainly.  "I  don't,"  she 
cries.  '  *  He  ought  to  testify  in  your  behalf. ' ' 

"Do  you  suppose  he  could  prove  that  his  friends 
inspired  the  labor  organization?"  demands  Foyle. 
' '  He  knows  it  and  you  know  it  and  they  know  it,  but 
proof  is  something  else." 

"If  I  do  my  duty  I'll  testify,"  she  cries. 

He  looks  at  her;  he  sees  the  light  of  purpose 
forming  in  her  eyes.  Shortly  after  she  leaves  he 
writes  out  his  resignation  as  Mayor  of  Oldport.  He 
is  a  fool  to  resign  under  fire.  But  if  he  doesn't  re- 


80  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

sign  Ramsey  will  testify.  It  will  mean  the  breaking 
of  her  marriage  relation  with  Willoughby.  Better 
that  Sam  Foyle  should  suffer  humiliation  than  that 
the  parents  of  Junior  and  Robert  should  be 
estranged. 

And  Uncle  Frank  Dabney  had  thought  that  the 
clash  of  contrary  ideas  would  be  interesting — and 
funny. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

The  Magnificent  surveyed  the  breakfast  room 
with  high  approval  in  his  deepset  green  eyes.  The 
flowers  on  the  table,  the  dainty  linen,  the  gleaming 
silver,  the  fruit,  the  aroma  of  the  coffee,  the  delicate 
omelette,  the  crisp  golden  toast,  the  two  boys,  the 
woman  across  the  round  table,  the  attentive  butler: 
all  these  things  contributed  to  his  satisfaction, 
belonged  to  him. 

His  health  was  good,  his  appetite  excellent,  his 
digestion  unimpaired.  His  house,  the  old  Blake 
place,  was  easily  the  most  imposing  in  Oldport.  He 
was  the  most  imposing  figure  in  Oldport.  Nor  was 
his  success  circumscribed  by  the  petty  limits  of  his 
home  town.  Boston  knew  him ;  New  York  was  proud 
to  shake  his  hand;  and  now  Washington — vide  the 
letter  which  he  held  in  his  hand — was  acknowledging 
his  achievements. 

It  was  a  habit  of  his  to  read  much  of  his  mail  at 
the  breakfast  table.  In  the  early  days  of  his  mar- 
riage there  had  been  a  greater  lure  in  watching  the 
curve  of  Ramsey's  wrist  as  she  poured  the  coffee, 
in  saying  things  that  brought  a  change  of  ex- 
pression to  a  face  that  was  as  lovely  in  the  morning 
as  in  the  afternoon.  Too,  in  those  days,  it  had 
seemed  impossible  for  the  tongue  of  either  to  find 
sufficient  time  in  which  to  tell  the  other  of  thoughts, 
of  happenings,  that  were  vital.  In  those  days,  love 
had  broken  down  the  barriers  of  reticence  which  a 

81 


82  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

certain  dignity  of  soul  had  imposed  upon  the  speech 
of  Ramsey;  it  had  seemed  to  The  Magnificent — he 
was  not  frequently  given  to  flights  of  fancy — that 
Ramsey,  at  breakfast,  was  like  some  lovely  bird  that 
violated  natural  history  by  possessing  a  lovely 
voice,  and  that  her  speech  was  a  song,  exultant  joy- 
ous, and — possibly — adoring. 

Now,  indeed,  it  afforded  him  pleasure  to  watch 
her ;  he  liked  to  listen  to  her.  But  she  was  no  longer 
his  mistress,  whose  condescension  amazed,  thrilled, 
and  submerged  him  in  ecstacy.  She  was  the  charm- 
ing mother  of  his  two  sons,  a  cultured  and  beautiful 
woman  of  whom  he  was  extremely  proud,  whom  he 
loved,  but  with  whom  he  no  longer  maintained  the 
rapturous  intimacy  of  ten  years  ago. 

The  little  teasings,  the  jests,  the  mock  quarrels — 
after  all,  there  is  a  time  for  everything  and  youth  is 

the  time  for  these  things He  read  his  mail  at 

breakfast. 

His  two  boys,  looking  at  their  mother  for  permis- 
sion, rose  from  the  table.  Junior,  passing  by  her 
chair,  leaned  over  and  kissed  her  on  the  wrist ;  Rob- 
ert placed  his  forefinger  against  his  lips,  kissed  it, 
and  tapped  his  mother  on  the  mouth.  She  made  as 
though  to  bite  the  finger  and  he  leaped  away  from 
her  in  pretended  fear.  Then  both  of  the  boys  came 
to  their  father's  side  and  dutifully  held  up  their 
mouths  to  the  paternal  salute. 

Willoughby,  fighting  against  a  frown,  kissed 
them,  and  watched  them  leave  the  room.  A  moment 
later  they  were  scuffling  in  the  hall.  Their  father 
felt  vaguely  uncomfortable.  There  was  a  certain 
indefinable  something  in  the  attitude  of  his  sons 
toward  him  that  annoyed  him. 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  83 

"Here's  a  letter  that  will  interest  you,  Ramsey," 
he  said. 

She  reached  to  meet  his  extended  hand;  their 
fingers  touched.  His  satisfaction  with  himself  and 
his  possessions  had  oddly  vanished  for  the  moment. 
He  caught  at  her  hand  and  the  letter  dropped  upon 
the  table.  Her  eyebrows  lifted  in  surprise ;  meeting 
his  eyes,  her  cheeks  were  invaded  by  a  rush  of  color. 
For  a  moment  the  hand  in  his  grasp  trembled,  then, 
casually,  she  released  her  fingers  from  his  and 
picked  up  the  letter.  The  Magnificent  felt,  in  some 
vague  way,  a  sense  of  bafflement 

A  cry  of  surprise  came  from  her  lips. 

* '  From  the  White  House, ' '  she  exclaimed. 

He  nodded.    " Read  it." 

She  opened  the  brief  note.  It  contained  an  offer 
of  appointment  to  the  First  Assistant  Secretaryship 
of  the  Treasury,  and  Mr.  Roosevelt  himself  had 
signed  it,  in  that  round  bold  manuscript  of  his. 

"Why — that's  practically  a  cabinet  position," 
she  marvelled. 

He  laughed.    ' '  Not  quite. ' ' 

"But  it  will  lead  to  that — sooner  or  later — it  will 
have  to,"  she  declared.  She  sighed,  then  laughed 
mockingly  at  herself.  "After  getting  this  place  in 
order  for  the  summer,  to  have  to  leave  .  .  .  .  " 

"Leave?"  His  laugh  was  incredulous.  "You 
don't  expect  me  to  accept,  do  you?" 

She  stared  at  him.    "You'll  refuse?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  will.  I'm  just  getting  the  Wil- 
loughby  Motor  Car  Company  so  that  it's  a  going 
concern.  Good  Lord,  Ramsey,  what  do  you  suppose 
I  've  been  working  for  these  past  twenty  years  ?  To 
take  a  five  thousand  dollar  job  in  Washington?" 


84  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

"It's  in  the  government — the  Cabinet,"  she  said. 

"It  isn't  in  the  Cabinet,  as  I've  already  told  you," 
he  retorted.  "And  suppose  it  were!  I  think  Cabi- 
net officers  get  about  eight  thousand — something 
ridiculous. ' ' 

"But  we  have — all  the  money  we  can  ever  need, 
haven't  we?"  she  asked. 

He  laughed  again.  "If  you  mean  that  we  prob- 
ably won't  ever  be  hungry,  and  that  we  can  send  the 
boys  to  college — yes." 

1  i  Then  why  let  the  salary  paid  by  the  government 
prevent  your  acceptance  of  the  President's  offer?" 
she  demanded. 

"You  seem  anxious  to  have  me  quit  my  work  and 
bury  myself  in  Washington,  don't  you?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head.  "I'm  not — anxious,  Jim. 
But  I — I'd  like  to  know  just  why  you  won't  consider 
it?" 

His  voice  showed  signs  of  exasperation.  "You 
want  to  know  why  I  won't  desert  a  business,  that 
will  make  me  millions,  for  a  tuppeny-ha 'penny  job 
in  Washington !  You  certainly  puzzle  me,  Ramsey. ' ' 

"Not  nearly  so  much,  I'm  afraid,  as  you  puzzle 
me,  Jim,"  she  replied. 

"Now,  just  exactly  what  do  you  mean  by  that?" 
he  cried.  "I'd  like  to  know  what  other  woman  in 
the  world  would  be  puzzled  at  my  refusal. ' ' 

'  *  I  think  that  many  of  them  would, ' '  she  said. 

"Well,  I  don't!  I'm  just  beginning  my  business 
life,  and  you  want  me  to  drop  it,  and  mix  in  a  lot  of 
dirty  politics — " 

"Being  in  the  Treasury  isn't  being  in  dirty  poli- 
tics, is  it?  And  Mr.  Roosevelt  wouldn't  ask  you  to 
mix  in  anything  dirty,  would  he  ? " 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  86 

"Oh,  you  needn't  take  me  so  literally,"  he  re- 
torted. * '  You  know  what  I  mean. ' ' 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  I  don't,  Jim.  Explain." 

"But  what  on  earth  is  there  to  explain?"  He 
was  more  than  merely  exasperated  now.  He  was 
slightly  angered.  "If  you  don't  understand  without 
asking,  there's  no  hope  of  giving  you  understand- 
ing. Hang  it,  Ramsey,  I  don't  think  you  understand 
me  at  all,  anyway." 

"I'm  afraid  that  I  don't,  Jim,"  she  agreed. 

"But,  without  understanding,  without  trying  to 
understand,  you  manage  to  enjoy  what  I  give  you 
pretty  well." 

"Are  you  sure?"  she  asked,  surprisingly. 

"Sure  of  what?" 

"What  you  just  said." 

He  grinned.  His  long  upper  lip  and  the  protrud- 
ing lower  one  parted,  but  the  movement  partook  of 
no  humor,  unless  it  was  cynical. 

"I  run  over  your  bills  once  in  a  while,  Ramsey, 
just  for  the  fun  of  it.  I'd  say,  if  you  asked  me,  that 
you  enjoy  life  pretty  well." 

"Because  I  spend  a  great  deal  of  money?"  she 
asked. 

He  raised  a  deprecating  hand.  "For  Heaven's 
sake,  don't  think  I'm  criticising  your  spending. 
The  Lord  knows  I'm  only  too  glad  to  have  you  do  it. 
What  else  do  I  make  money  for,  but  my  family?" 

"Do  you  make  it  for  us?"  she  inquired. 

He  was  blankly  bewildered  by  now.  "Well,  what 
on  earth  do  you  think  I  work  like  a  dog  for?" 

"That's  what  I'm  trying  to  find  out,"  she  told 
him. 


86  A  MORE   HONORABLE    MAN 

"Well,  I  guess  you  have  found  out,  then,  eh?"  he 
replied. 

She  shook  her  head.    "I've  heard  what  you  say." 

"And  don't  believe  me,  eh!"  His  face  was 
slightly  red  now. 

"Let's  not  quarrel,  Jim,"  she  pleaded. 

"If  we  do,  it  will  be  your  fault,  not  mine.  Heaven 
knows,  when  I  show  you  a  letter  from  the  President, 
I  don't  expect  that  it  will  start  a  row.  Any  other 
woman  that  I  ever  knew  would  have  been  tickled  to 
death,  flattered  that  her  husband  received  such  a 
recognition.  Instead,  you  begin  to  pick  on  me — " 

"Jim!    That's  childish." 

"Is  it?  Why  is  it?  Haven't  you  been  picking  on 
me?  What  on  earth  else  do  you  call  it,  then?" 

She  pushed  back  her  chair  and  rose. 

"That's  the  way,"  he  cried.  "Start  a  quarrel 
with  me,  and  then  walk  off,  offended,  hurt." 

"What  is  there  to  say?"  she  asked. 

"There's  a  lot  to  be  said,  it  seems  to  me,"  he 
replied.  "You're  so  darned  critical  of  me." 

"When  have  I  criticised  you?"  she  asked. 

"Right  now.  You  think  I  ought  to  accept  the 
President's  offer,  don't  you?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "Not  if  you  feel  that  mak- 
ing the  Willoughby  motor-car  is  more  important 
than  serving  your  country." 

"Well,  isn't  it  just  as  important?  Isn't  it  render- 
ing service  to  my  country  to  provide  its  people  with 
a  cheap,  useful  automobile?  Isn't  it  going  to  bring 
the  farmer  and  the  city  man  together?  Isn't  it  go- 
ing to  promote  the  spread  of  knowledge,  making 
access  to  the  country  easy  to  the  city  man,  and  isn't 
it  going  to  bring  the  farmer  in  closer  touch  with  the 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  87 

affairs  of  the  city?  Isn't  it  going  to  improve  the  lot 
of  the  people  in  a  thousand  different  ways?" 

"I  think  it  is,"  she  agreed. 

"Then  why  can't  I  serve  my  country  as  well  in  my 
factory  as  in  Washington?"  he  demanded,  triumph- 
antly. 

"Is  that  why  you  are  going  to  refuse  the  Presi- 
dent's offer?"  she  asked. 

"Is  what  why?"  he  countered. 

"Service.  Because  you  can  give  better  service 
here  than  there?"  She  paused  a  moment.  Then 
she  went  on,  "Or  is  it,  after  all,  Jim,  the  money? 
I've  heard  you  talk  the  same  way  about  Pinnacle, 
Jim.  And  yet,  somehow,  I  feel  that  it's  the  money 
more  than  the  service. ' ' 

"Well,  suppose  that  I  do  make  a  profit?  Any- 
thing wrong  in  that  ? ' '  There  was  the  faintest  sus- 
picion of  a  sneer  in  his  voice. 

"Not  the  least.  Only,  you  shouldn't  deceive  your- 
self. Why  not  admit,  frankly,  that  it's  money  that 
interests  you?" 

"I  guess  it  interests  you  about  as  much  as  it  does 
me, ' '  he  jeered.  ' '  You  spend  it. ' ' 

"But  I'd  be  willing  not  to,"  she  told  him. 

"That's  what  you  say;  it's  easy  to  say.  How 
much  did  your  last  hat  cost?" 

"Do  you  really  want  to  know?"  she  inquired. 

He  rose,  too.  "Of  course  I  don't;  you  know  that 
I  don't.  I'm  just  putting  it  up  to  you.  You  spend  a 
year  at  a  time  in  Europe.  That  costs  money. 
Everything  you  do  costs  money.  Why  sneer  at  me 
for  making  it  ? " 

"Jim!"  Her  voice  was  reproachful,  pathetic 
with  the  tragedy  of  misunderstanding. 


88  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

1  'Oh,  it's  all  very  well  to  say  'Jim,'  with  that 
butter-won 't-melt-in-your -mouth  expression!  But 
when  it  comes  to  helping  your  husband,  it's  differ- 
ent, isn't  it?  Wanting  me  to  go  into  dirty  politics — " 

"And  make  them  clean,"  she  interrupted  him. 

"I've  got  more  important  things  to  do,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Willoughby, ' '  he  said,  mockingly. 

"Is  there  anything  more  important,  Jim?"  she 
challenged. 

"Yes,  there's  something  important  for  you,"  he 
said.  He  was  thoroughly  angry.  "You  can  make 
my  sons  behave  better  to  me." 

"Your  sons?  They're  perfectly  polite,  always 
respectful, ' '  she  said. 

"Yes!  But  when  they  come  to  kiss  me — like  just 
now — you'd  think  it  was  a  job  they  had  to  go 
through.  I  want  them — " 

She  laughed.  "You  want  them  to  like  kissing 
you?  Is  that  it  I" 

"Well,  it  isn't  funny  if  I  do.  Of  course  I  do,"  he 
cried. 

"Well,  why  not  like  kissing  them?    I  do." 

His  brows  humped  together.  "I  don't  know  what 
you're  talking  about,  Eamsey." 

"That's  the  pity  of  it,"  she  told  him. 

He  stared  at  her,  puzzled.  Ramsey  wasn't  the 
kind  of  a  person  who  talked  vaguely ;  she  was  direct, 
honest,  sincere.  Yet  she'd  said  some  things  this 
morning  that  he  didn't  understand. 

"Ramsey,"  he  asked  suddenly,  "do  you  love 
me?" 

The  question  was  so  unexpected  that  it  was  like  a 
blow.  Woman-like,  when  such  a  matter  as  love  is 
under  discussion,  she  evaded. 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  89 

" Don't  you  think  so?"  she  countered. 

His  eyes  were  glowering  now,  not  angrily,  but  as 
though  he  were  looking  beyond  her,  at  something 
that  puzzled,  bewildered  him. 

"I  always  have — until  just  now,"  he  answered. 
"I — you  go  abroad — and  stay  there,  but — that's  all 
right.  I  want  you  to.  But — I  haven't  done  much 
thinking  about — love.  I  just — assumed,  of  course, 
you  did.  But  now — do  you  ? ' ' 

Still  she  evaded.    "Do  you  love  me,  Jim?" 

"Better  than  anything  on  earth,  Eamsey.  You 
believe  me  ? ' ' 

"I  believe  that  you  think  so,"  she  told  him. 

Her  answer  added  to  his  bewilderment.  "That 
doesn't  mean  anything.  If  I  think  I  love — love's 
only  thinking,  anyway,  isn't  it?  What  more  do  you 
want?  Do  you  love  me?" 

Her  violet  eyes  suddenly  flashed  scorn  at  the  ques- 
tion, a  scorn  that  might  possibly  include  the  ques- 
tioner. ' '  Do  you  think, ' '  she  cried,  *  *  that,  if  I  didn  't 
love  you,  I'd  care  at  all  about  what  you  did?" 

He  stared  at  her  a  moment,  then  suddenly  swept 
her  into  his  arms  and  kissed  her.  "I'm  a  cross  old 
man,  Ramsey,"  he  said.  "But  I'm  so  darned  busy 
— now,  this  Washington  matter — " 

' '  Don 't  talk  about  it, ' '  she  said.    '  *  I  understand. '  * 

"Honest?"    His  voice  was  apprehensive. 

"Honest,"  she  smiled — through  tears. 

For  a  moment  his  arms  gripped  her  tight;  it 
seemed  to  him  that  that  embrace  crushed  misunder- 
standing, drove  life  from  its  evil  bosom.  He  won- 
dered, suddenly,  how  it  had  happened  that  his  morn- 
ing kiss,  on  leaving  for  the  office,  had  become  per- 
functory. There  was  something  thrilling  in  holding 


90  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

Ramsey  to  him,  feeling  the  vitality  of  her.  He  did 
not  know  that  only  spontaneous  passion  is  alive.  .  .  . 

He  released  her ;  both  of  them  were  flushed.  The 
moment  seemed  propitious  for  the  broaching  of  a 
subject,  thought  of  which  had  kept  Eamsey  awake 
for  the  better  part  of  the  past  two  nights. 

"Jim,"  she  said,  "don't  you  think  that,  somehow 
or  other,  you  can  have  the  impeachment  proceed- 
ings, against  Sam,  dropped?  I  went  to  see  Sam, 
the  other  day,  and — " 

"So?"  The  Magnificent  was  interested  instantly. 
"That  was  bad,  Ramsey.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  scandal ; 
I  mean — " 

"I  know,"  she  said.  "But — he  explained  to  me 
— a  lot  of  things.  Jim,  can't  you  cause  the  impeach- 
ment to  be  dropped?" 

He  grimaced.  "Hang  it,  Ramsey,  I  worked  all 
day  yesterday  with  a  bunch  of  men.  Sam's  my 
friend,  you  know.  Well,  I  began  to  get  sore.  Told 
them  that  if  I  spoke  right  out  in  meeting  it  might  do 
me  some  damage,  but  would  hurt  them  a  lot  more. 
They  agreed  to  quash  the  matter,  and  then — well, 
when  I  had  them  won  over,  Sam  sent  his  resignation 
to  the  Board  of  Aldermen,  and  they  accepted  it  on 
the  spot — " 

"Oh,"  she  cried.  Her  disappointment  was  poig- 
nant. But,  in  the  moment  of  her  sorrow  for  Foyle, 
there  was  rejoicing  in  her  heart  because  of  her  hus- 
band. "If  you'd  only  been  sooner,  Jim.  Not  that 
I'm  criticising — " 

"I  know.  It's  too  bad.  But,  hang  it,  Ramsey, 
the  older  I  get  the  more  wedded  I  become  to  the  be- 
lief that  you  can't  do  a  darned  thing  for  anyone  else. 
They  have  to  do  it  for  themselves. ' ' 


A  MORE  HONORABLE   MAN  91 

She  mused  on  this  aphorism  for  hours  after  he 
had  left  the  house.  But  she  was  applying  it  to  her 
husband,  not  to  Sam  Foyle. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  shabby  figure ;  dusty ;  striding  along  in  ungainly 
fashion;  a  fishing-pole  over  its  shoulder;  a  bat- 
tered felt  hat  upon  its  shock  of  coarse  black  hair; 
the  gut  leaders  of  trout  flies  dangling  from  the  hat ; 
a  worn  wicker  creel  suspended  from  the  shoulder 
over  the  left  hip ;  high  waders  caked  with  mud.  .  .  . 

A  sportsman,  not  a  sport 

"Swee-eet  Adeline,  Sweet  Ad-e-line, 
At  ni-i-ight,  dear  heart, 

For  you  I  pine " 

An  automobile — upon  the  radiator,  in  letters  of 
brass,  is  the  name,  "Willoughby  Motor  Company" 
— overtakes  him;  the  driver  glances  over  her  shoul- 
der, waves  a  gauntleted  hand,  and  stops.  The  fish- 
erman ceases  his  song,  and  his  shambling  stride 
quickens.  He  reaches  the  automobile.  He  extends 
his  hand,  somewhat  timidly. 

The  lady  shakes  her  head.  * '  Above  the  roar  of  my 
engine,  Sam  Foyle,  I  thought  I  heard  the  strains  of 
music.  This  is  a  world  of  machines,  in  which  art  is 
smothered  under  science.  I  will  take  no  part  in  the 
smothering.  Sing,  Minstrel." 

The  wide  mouth  of  Foyle  opens,  in  a  grin,  ex- 
posing a  score  or  more  of  large,  but  well-kept  teeth. 
He  needs  no  further  urging. 

"In  all  my  dreams, 
Your  fair  fa-ace  beams, 
You're  the  id-ol  o-f 
My  heart,  Sweet  Ad-e-line." 

98 


94  A  MORE  HONORABLE   MAN 

It  isn't  a  trained  voice;  but  its  baritone  is  pleas- 
ing. The  lady  claps  her  hands  together,  and  her 
mouth  opens  as  she  cries,  " Bravo!" 

Foyle  sweeps  his  battered  cap  from  his  head  and 
dusts  the  road  with  it;  he  replaces  it  upon  his  un- 
ruly hair  and  takes  the  lady's  hand  in  both  his  own. 

"This  is  mighty  good,  Eamsey,"  he  declares. 

She  withdraws  her  hand  and  frowns  upon  him. 
"When  a  lady  condescends  to  make  advances  to  a 
gentleman,  and  her  advances  are  spurned,  the  gen- 
tleman is  silly  to  think  that  he  has  purchased  for- 
giveness by  a  song." 

"I've  been  away,"  he  says  quickly. 

The  lady  elevates  her  pretty  nose;  its  delicately 
carved  nostrils  contract  in  what  seems  to  be  a  sniff. 

"You're  not  away  now,"  she  charges.  "And  you 
weren't  away  last  week  I  saw  you  on  Main  Street," 
she  accuses. 

' '  Slinking  along,  furtively,  with  downcast  eyes  ? ' ' 
he  grins. 

"As  brazen  as  brass,  with  your  shoulders  squared, 
as  though  you  had  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,"  she 
exclaims. 

He  toys  with  the  creel  over  his  left  hip.  Then, 
suddenly,  he  stares  her  in  the  eyes.  "Do  you  know, 
Eamsey,  that's  the  terrible  thing  about  me:  I  can't 
feel  any  shame." 

"God  Almighty  hates  a  quitter,"  she  reminds 
him. 

Now  he  flushes ;  the  strong  chin  seems  to  harden. 
"I  had  my  reasons,  Ramsey." 

The  simulation  of  scorn  leaves  her  eyes;  they 
fill  with  tears.  "As  if  I  didn't  know,  you  silly, 
stupid,  foolish  man!  But  if  you'd  only  waited — " 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  95 

Something  very  like  a  sob  comes  from  her  parted 
lips.  "Now — you  resigned  under  fire — people  are 
contemptuous — they  don't  know — " 

"I  deserve  it,"  he  declares. 

"Because  you  didn't  catch  the  trick  in  the 
charter?  A  trick  that  would  have  fooled  anyone!" 
She  is  indignant. 

He  shakes  his  head.  "Because  I  didn't  trust  Jim. 
I  might  have  known — ought  to  have  known,  that 
Jim  isn't  the  kind  to  let  a  friend  suffer  when  he  can 
help  it." 

Her  eyes  are  grateful.  "He  had  it  all  fixed,  Sam, 
and  then — like  a  bombshell,  your  resignation  ex- 
ploded  Sam,  I  know  why  you  did  it." 

"I  didn't  know  that  God  was  a  lady,"  he  smiles. 
"Or  is  there  really  something  in  this  mind-reading 
business?" 

"There  always  has  been  something  in  it,  Sam," 
she  replies  gently,  "when  a  man — loves — a  woman." 

He  does  not  blush,  now,  beneath  her  accusation; 
he  becomes  white,  and  his  pallor  is  accentuated  by 
his  black  hair.  The  hand  that  is  resting  upon  the 
side  of  her  car  shakes.  In  his  eyes  is  a  pleading  ex- 
pression, the  sort  of  look  one  finds  in  the  eyes  of  a 
dog,  sometimes.  His  trembling  lips  simulate  a 
smile,  and  he  strives  pathetically  to  put  gayety  in 
his  voice. 

"Don't  remember  ever  telling  you  anything  like 
that,  Ramsey  Willoughby,"  he  says.  "Don't  re- 
member it  at  all."  His  voice  grows  firmer  as  he 
speaks,  as  though  its  sound  gave  him  confidence.  He 
is  whistling  to  keep  his  courage  up.  ' '  I  guess,  Ram- 
sey Willoughby,  that  you've  been  so  flattered  and 
courted  and  sought-for,  abroad  and  here,  that  you 


96  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

kind  of  think  you're  irresistible.  Isn't  that  about 
right,  Ramsey?" 

" Them's  harsh  words,  Sam  Foyle,"  she  says. 
"But  probably  they're  true.  I  guess  I  have  what 
Junior  terms  the  swelled  head.  I  guess  that  I've 
imagined  things.  Silly  things.  School-girl  things. 
About  a  true  knight,  leal  and  loving,  who  would  al- 
ways see  me  as  I  was,  say,  a  dozen  years  ago,  upon 

whom  I  could  always  depend Sam,  a  married 

woman  should  not  think  such  things.  Especially  if 
she  happens  to  love  her  husband.  A  man  would  have 
a  right  to  think  that  the  married  woman  was  cheap- 
ening herself,  indulging  in  a  nasty  flirtation. 
Wouldn't  he?" 

He  nods  gravely.  "A  man  certainly  would,  Ram- 
sey. But  a  true  knight,  leal  and  loving,  like  you 
mentioned,  would  know  better.  He'd  know  that 
nastiness  was  as  far  from  you  as  heaven  is  from 
hell,  Eamsey  Willoughby.  That  true  knight,  too, 
wouldn't  be  thinking  of  you  as  you  were  a  dozen 
years  ago.  He'd  think  of  you  as  you  are  now,  Ram- 
sey Willoughby,  and  he'd  think  that  you  grew  more 
beautiful  every  day.  And  that  true  knight  would 
know  that  you  weren't  vain,  and  didn't  think  you 
were  irresistible,  but  that  you  were  just  kind,  gen- 
tle .  .  .  .  "  He  forces  from  his  eyes  the  expression 
that  has  been  in  them,  and  replaces  it  with  merri- 
ment. "Glad  to've  met  you,  ma'am,  and  thank  you 
kindly." 

She  is  his  match ;  the  sophistication  that  years  of 
residence  abroad,  the  possession  of  money,  and 
the  acquaintance  of  cultured  persons,  bring,  flashes 
in  her  eyes. 

"What  did  you  catch,  Sam?"  she  asks. 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  97 

"Twelve  of  the  handsomest  steel-heads  you  ever 
saw,"  he  answers.  He  opens  the  creel  and  permits 
her  to  view  the  trout. 

"Where?  I  thought  that  all  the  brooks  around 
here  were  fished  out,"  she  exclaims. 

He  grins.  "You  may  know  the  Louvre  and  Buck- 
ingham Palace,  Ramsey,  but  when  it  comes  to  Rock- 
land  County — I  know  a  lot  of  places  where  they're 
hungry  all  the  time,"  he  tells  her. 

She  smiles  at  his  naive  pride.  "Sam,  I've  writ- 
ten and  asked  you  to  dinner." 

"I've  been  away,  I  told  you,"  he  retorts. 

"And  somehow,  though  I  suppose  I  could  force 
you  to  invite  me  to  dinner,  The  Commercial  House 
lacks  appeal.  Though  don't  tell  Uncle  Frank  that." 

"I  won't,"  he  promises. 

Decision  begins  to  form  in  her  violet  eyes.  1 '  You 
don't  know  where  I've  been,  Sam  Foyle." 

He  peers  into  the  tonneau  of  the  touring  car. 
"You  haven't  been  shopping  on  Fifth  Avenue,"  he 
says  gravely. 

"Mar-vellous  man,"  she  cries.  "I've  been  to 
Agatha  Simpson's  farm;  she  hasn't  been  well,  and, 
anyway,  it's  easier  for  me  to  run  out  in  the  car  than 
for  her  to  drive  that  played-out  old  horse  of  hers  to 
town,  poor  dear. ' ' 

"You  don't  have  to  apologize  to  me  because  you 
happen  to  be  kind,"  he  tells  her. 

"Interrupt  me  again,  Mr.  Foyle,  and  you'll  miss 
something,"  she  scolds  severely. 

"You  got  as  far  as  Agatha's  old  horse,  Mrs.  Wil- 
loughby,"  he  says  humbly. 

"Very  well,"  she  continues,  mollified.  "I  have 
butter  and  eggs  and  some  home-cured  ham,  and,  for 


98  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

good  measure,  Agatha  gave  me  two  dozen  of  the 
loveliest  biscuits,  brown  on  top,  but  inside — " 

"Souls  of  snow,"  exclaims  Foyle. 

"And  you  have  a  dozen  trout,  and  probably  a 
knife,"  she  says. 

He  fishes  in  his  pocket  and  produces  a  sizeable 
jack-knife.  "It  could  cut  ham,"  he  announces. 

"It  will,"  she  declares.  "Jump  into  this  ma- 
chine, Sam  Foyle,  and — " 

"Let  the  tongue  of  gossip  be  unconfined,"  he  in- 
terrupts. 

She  eyes  him  queerly.  "Do  you  think,  Sam,  that 
anyone  in  Oldport  will  gossip  about  me?  Or  that 
I'd  care  if  they  did?" 

"They're  talking,"  he  says  slowly,  "of  having 
the  Bar  Association  take  action  against  me.  I'm 
pretty  disreputable,  Eamsey. ' ' 

"And  I,"  she  retorts,  "am  fairly  reputable.  Get 
in  the  car." 

He  obeys  her.  After  all,  if  there  is  one  person  in 
all  of  Oldport  immune  from  scandal,  Eamsey  Wil- 
loughby  is  the  person. 

"Where?"  she  asks. 

"Any  place  at  all,"  he  answers. 

She  thinks  a  moment,  a  frown  that  Foyle  thinks 
not  unbecoming  wrinkling  her  pretty  brows.  1 1  Has- 
lett's  Cove,"  she  cries. 

' '  I  am  in  your  hands, ' '  he  informs  her. 

Ten  minutes  later  she  stops  the  car  at  the  edge 
of  the  rocky  beach  at  Haslett's  Cove.  In  another 
five  minutes  he  has  gathered  sun-baked  driftwood 
and  has  thrilled  her  by  producing,  from  the  lower 
compartment  of  his  creel,  a  tiny  collapsible  frying 
pan,  a  similarly  constructed  coffee  pot,  and  two  tin 


A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN  99 

cups,  spoons,  knives  and  forks.    He  has  coffee  and 
sugar,  too,  and  condensed  cream. 

Ecstatically  Ramsey  arranges  her  comestibles 
upon  a  flat  rock;;  she  insists  upon  brewing  the  coffee 
and  frying  the  trout  and  ham.  She  sends  Foyle 
upon  long  journeys  to  a  spring,  makes  him  gather 
more  wood  than  could  be  consumed  in  the  cooking 
of  a  dozen  picnic  luncheons,  and  finally  waves  him 
to  her  stone  table. 

They  eat,  with  many  "m'm's"  and  "ahs"  and 
' '  ohs. ' '  Finally  their  appetites  are  satisfied.  Foyle, 
leaning  back  against  a  boulder,  produces  a  pipe;  a 
battered  affair  that,  having  received  Ramsey's  gra- 
cious permission,  he  cuddles  against  his  nose,  im- 
parting, from  the  facial  oils,  new  gloss  and  burnish 
to  its  disreputable  bowl. 

Ramsey,  from  a  little  handbag,  produces  a  cigar- 
ette case. 

"I'm  a  lost  woman,"  she  announces.  "Give  me 
a  match." 

For  a  moment  there  is  silence  between  them.  Then 
Ramsey  says,  "It's  been  a  bully  picnic,  Sam.  I 
wish  Jim  had  been  along. ' ' 

He  winces,  but  she  doesn't  see  the  flickers  of  his 
eye-lids. 

"Jim  loves  anything  like  this,  Sam.    But  he's  so 

wrapped  up  in  business Ah,  well.    Time  to  go 

home,  Sam." 

He  rises,  and  knocks  his  pipe  against  the  boulder. 
He  tramples  upon  the  fire,  like  the  good  woodsman 
that  he  is,  seeing  that  every  tiny  spark  is  cold.  He 
gathers  together  what  remains  of  Agatha  Simpson's 
produce  and  puts  it  into  the  tonneau  of  the  car.  He 
assists  Ramsey  into  the  driver's  seat,  then  steps 


100  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

back.  She  motions  him  to  climb  in  beside  her,  but 
he  shakes  his  head. 

"Want  to  walk,  thank  you  just  the  same,  Ram- 
sey," he  tells  her. 

She  purses  her  lips,  almost  poutingly,  then  ac- 
cepts his  decision. 

"All  right,  Sam.    It's  been  bully,  hasn't  it?" 

"Best  meal  I  ever  ate,"  he  says. 

She  leans  from  her  seat,  extending  her  hand. 
"And  now  that  I've  shown  you  that  the  foremost 
lady  of  Oldport,  Oldport's  social  leader — stop  me 
if  I  seem  to  boast,  please." 

He  grins  at  her.  "You're  well  within  the  bounds 
of  fact,  Ramsey." 

"Maybe  I  won't  stay  there.  To  resume:  Old- 
port's  arbiter  of  social  matters  puts  the  seal  of  ap- 
proval upon  you.  Oldport's  queen  of  fashion  de- 
clares to  you  that  she  has  but  to  say  a  word,  and 
every  door  in  Oldport  is  open  to  the  ex-Mayor  of 
the  town.  Shall  she  say  the  word?" 

He  still  grins.  * '  It  would  be  mighty  sweet  of  Old- 
port 's  queen  to  do  that  thing,  but  what's  the  use? 
The  ex-Mayor  of  Oldport  wouldn't  go  through  those 
doors." 

"Why  not?"    She  is  crisp,  terse. 

"Well,  Ramsey,  what  would  Oldport's  queen  say 
if  she  knew  that  I  didn't  care  a  tinker's  hoot  about 
the  dukes  and  duchesses  of  her  court?  That  would 
be  pretty  strong  language,  coming  from  a  discred- 
ited and  disgraced  man  wouldn't  it?  But  it's  the 
truth,  Ramsey.  You  see,  outside  of  a  labor  group 
who  got  behind  the  impeachment  proceedings,  the 
poor  people  of  the  town  kind  of  like  me.  Lord  knows 
why,  but  they  don 't  think  I  'm  a  pariah,  at  all.  They 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  101 

think  I'm  sort  of  stupid,  footling,  maybe,  but  that's 
all.  But  the  people  over  whom  you  queen  it — well, 
Ramsey,  it  doesn't  seem  to  matter  much  to  me  what 
they  think  about  me." 

"You  don't  care  what  the  respectable  people 
think  of  you,  Sam?"  she  asks.  She  is  apparently 
amazed. 

"Ramsey,"  he  answers,  "I  don't  lose  much 
sleep  over  what  anyone  thinks  of  me,  so  long  as — 
but  you  don't  want  me  to  be  priggish,  do  you?" 

"I  want  to  hear  what  you  have  to  say,  Sam,"  she 
informs  him. 

"All  right,  I'll  be  a  prig,  then.  So  long  as  I  do 
what  seems  to  me  to  be  right;  so  long  as  I  get  the 
approval  of  Sam  Foyle — nothing  else  matters,  Ram- 
sey." 

"Except  what  I  think,"  she  says,  bluntly. 

He  stares  at  her  and  his  chin  once  again  is  hard. 
"Ramsey,  you  keep  harping  on  that.  "Why?  Is  it 
because — Ramsey,  you  don't  want  to  hurt  me.  I 
know  that.  And  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you." 

"Don't  want  to  hurt  me?"  She  is  bewildered. 
"How,  Sam?" 

' 1  How  ?  I  '11  tell  you  how.  You  've  been  imagining 
things  about  a  true  knight,  Ramsey.  Well,  it  hasn't 
been  imagination.  But  that  true  knight — he  isn't 
much  of  a  knight,  but  he's  true — that  knight,  Ram- 
sey, has  got  a  devil  inside  of  him.  You  don't  want 
to  rouse  that  devil,  Ramsey.  For  I'm  telling  you, 
Ramsey,  that  if  that  true  knight  of  yours  ever  once 
let  himself  go — ever  let  himself  get  to  the  point 
where  he'd  look  his  love  in  the  face  and  let  it  rule 
him — My  God,  Ramsey,  if  I  ever  once  tell  you  that 
I  love  you,  do  you  think  I'll  let  you  go?" 


102  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

He  seems  to  grow  bigger  as  he  speaks;  his  eyes 
are  fiery. 

1  'I  know  that  you  think  it  will  ease  the  ache — 
bless  you — for  me  to  tell  you.  And  I  know  that 
you're  too  big,  too  fine,  to  stoop  to  gratification  of 
vanity.  You  want  me  to  speak,  not  because  you're 
disloyal  in  thought  or  deed,  to  Jim,  but  because  you 
think  it  will  help  me  to  speak. 

"Help  me?  Ramsey,  I'm  a  man!  By  the  living 
God  that  made  me,  if  I  once  confess  I'll  take  you." 

"Take  me!"    She  is  suddenly  haughty. 

"Yes,  take  you!"  he  cries.  "From  your  home, 
from  your  children,  from  the  husband  you  love — 
Ramsey,  for  God's  sake,  don't  be  kind  to  me;  you 
don't  know  how  to  be  kind  to  me.  Nobody  knows. 
Ramsey,  I  haven't  told  you,  yet,  that  I  love  you. 
For  God's  sake,  for  your  sake — for  Jim's  sake  and 
for  mine — for  Junior,  for  Robert — go  before  I  tell 
you." 

She  laughs  once,  uneasily.  Then,  suddenly,  she 
leans  forward  and  touches  his  bared  head.  Then 
she  drives  away,  steering  with  one  hand,  brushing 
tears  from  her  eyes  with  the  other,  marvelling  at 
the  difficulty  with  which  she  breathes.  .... 


CHAPTER  X 

We  have  looked  at  The  Magnificent  through  the 
eyes  of  Uncle  Frank;  we  have  glimpsed  him,  per- 
haps, through  the  eyes  of  Sam  Foyle ;  certainly  we 
have  seen  him  as  Eamsey,  once  or  twice,  has 
glanced  at  him;  we  have  even,  somewhat  unfairly, 
peeped  at  him  with  the  eyes  of  Junior  and  little 
Robert.  We  have  seen  the  reactions  of  waitresses, 
and  factory  hands,  and  even  poor  dead  Jennie  Smol- 
len,  she  who,  if  she  had  lived,  would  have  crawled 
upon  her  knees,  according  to  her  mother,  had  Sam 
Foyle  signaled  for  her  coming. 

The  poet  pleaded  for  the  power  to  see  himself  as 
others  saw  him.  Yet,  unable  to  see  others  correctly, 
would  we  not  be  as  badly  off  if  we  possessed  that 
extra  vision?  Would  we  not  have  as  distorted  and 
untrue  an  image  as  we  have  now? 

There  are  other  persons  from  whom,  before  our 
case  is  closed,  we  shall  hear.  But  the  time  seems 
opportune  to  let  The  Magnificent  himself  take  the 
stand  again.  We  have  heard  from  him  earlier  and 
perhaps  have  formed  opinions.  Let  us  hear  from 
him  again  and  see  if  those  opinions  are  firmly  lodged 
in  our  minds. 

Behold  him,  then,  in  one  of  his  rare  moods  of  ex- 
citement, bursting  into  Ramsey's  bed-room.  (It 
may  be  worth  while  to  note  that,  beginning  with  the 
year  before  Ramsey's  long  sojourn  in  Paris  with 

103 


104  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

the  two  boys,  the  Willoughbys  have  occupied  sep- 
arate bed-rooms.) 

The  Magnificent  is  flushed;  even  the  top  of  his 
head  shines  redly  through  its  sparse  hair.  He  still 
is  wearing  a  light  overcoat,  and  gauntlets  on  his 
hands.  Without  the  formality  of  knocking  he  pushes 
through  the  door.  His  wif e  is  standing  before  her 
mirror  applying  to  her  features  those  last  beauti- 
fying touches  which  differentiate  the  artist  from 
the  craftsman.  Not  that  Eamsey  is  an  artificial 
product  by  any  means,  but  she  has  learned  that 
beauty  must  be  as  carefully  tended  as  any  other 
valuable  and  delicate  possession.  She  is  softening 
now,  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  the  too  definite 
lines  of  her  mouth.  She  licks  her  lips  with  her 
tongue,  daintily,  and  the  rouge  blends  naturally 
into  her  flesh. 

Over  her  shoulder  she  looks  in  surprise  at  her 
husband.  For  the  moment  he  forgets  the  impulse 
that  has  brought  him  racing  up  the  stairs  to  her 
room  and  made  him  dispense  with  the  formality  of 
a  knock. 

"You're  a  peach,  Eamsey,"  he  declares. 

He  is  guilty  of  no  exaggeration.  Standing  there 
in  her  silk  drawers  and  chemise  she  looks  as  slim 
as  a  girl.  Her  legs,  sleek  in  silk,  taper  gracefully 
to  her  ankles,  round  and  small.  She  is  one  of  the 
rare  women  whose  legs  are  straight,  whose  knee- 
caps are  not  bunchy.  Her  throat  and  shoulders  and 
bosom  are  white  and  smooth,  as  are  her  arms,  and 
the  gracious  swell  of  her  breast  is  the  only  indica- 
tion of  her  motherhood.  She  wears  no  corsets,  only 
a  narrow  girdle  from  which  are  suspended  her  gar- 
ters. Seeing  her  thus,  even  a  husband  must  have 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  105 

been  extremely  preoccupied  with  other  matters  to 
have  foregone  a  compliment. 

She  colors  and  reaches  swiftly  for  a  negligee  hang- 
ing over  a  chair.  "You  should  have  knocked,"  she 
tells  him. 

He  stares  at  her,  his  brows  humping  and  almost 
meeting. 

"Don't  be  alarmed;  you're  safe  with  me,"  he 
tells  her. 

Her  flush  deepens;  she  turns  her  face  away, 
drawing  the  silken  wrap  closer  about  her.  But  The 
Magnificent  has  already  forgotten  her  embarrass- 
ment and  his  own  preliminary  remarks.  He  strides 
up  and  down  the  charming  bed-room,  dropping  his 
coat  on  one  chair  and  tossing  his  motor  gauntlets 
upon  her  dressing  table.  Ramsey  rescues  an  over- 
turned bottle  of  scent. 

"Well,  I've  done  it,"  he  cries. 

She  is  angry  with  herself  because  she  has  been 
embarrassed  at  his  unexpected  entrance  into  the 
room.  She  shows  intense  interest. 

1 1  Tell  me, ' '  she  says.  She  walks  to  him,  her  mouth 
parted  in  excitement  or,  certainly,  an  excellent 
simulation.  One  would  have  forgiven  a  man  had  he 
deferred  announcing  his  election  to  the  Presidency 
until  he  had  clasped  that  provocative  figure  to  him. 
We  do  not  find  it  necessary  to  forgive  The  Mag- 
nificent; she  is  no  longer  a  charming  and  beautiful 
wife;  she  is  hardly  sentient  so  far  as  he  is  con- 
cerned; she  might  be  anything  or  anyone;  she  is  a 
pair  of  ears,  and  that  is  all. 

Exultant,  boastful  as  she  seldom  has  seen  him,  he 
does  not  know  that  her  lips  are  perhaps  ready  to 


106  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

be  kissed,  that  her  eyes  are  softened  by  shame  and 
regret  for  her  recent  embarrassment. 

* '  Of  course  1 11  tell  you !  The  minute  it  was  over 
I  grabbed  my  hat  and  coat  and  raced  for  the  car ;  I 
wanted  you  to  be  the  first  to  know  it."  He  really 
means  it;  he  actually  believes  it.  Perhaps  in  this 
unwitting,  unmeant  untruth,  we  are  afforded  a  bet- 
ter view  of  him  than  we  have  had  before. 

She  humors  his  excitement ;  she  goes  to  the  dress- 
ing table  and  from  one  of  its  drawers  brings  forth  a 
gaudily  labelled  box.  She  opens  it,  having  some 
difficulty  with  the  tiny  nails  that  keep  the  cover  shut, 
disclosing  cigars.  It  is  the  first  time  that  the  box 
has  been  opened;  the  cigars  are  dried,  almost 
crumbling.  Evidently  they  have  been  here,  in  the 
strange  lodgment  of  a  lady's  bed-room,  for  many 
months.  If  the  cigars  could  talk  to  us  perhaps  they 
would  tell  us  how  infrequently  the  lord  of  the  house- 
hold has  visited  this  room.  One  feels  a  sudden 
sympathy  for  Eamsey.  Cigars  are  not  usually 
associated  with  sorrow  or  romance,  yet  one  wonders 
what  were  Eamsey 's  thoughts  when  she  purchased 
them,  what  hopes  have  grown  dry  and  crumbly  with 
the  cigars. 

But  Willoughby  does  not  notice  that  the  cigars 
are  stale ;  he  does  not  even  seem  to  be  surprised  that 
Eamsey  should  have  a  box  of  his  favorite  brand. 
He  lights  one,  moves  it  around  in  his  mouth,  chew- 
ing the  end,  almost  forgetting  to  draw  the  smoke 
into  his  throat. 

Suddenly  he  sits  down;  he  sighs  as  might  the 
victor  after  a  hard  race.  Words  pour  from  him.  "I 
licked  the  whole  bunch;  had  'em  feeding  out  of  my 
hands,  licking  my  finger  tips.  Brewer,  Eiker, 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  107 

Sammis — the  whole  tribe!  Thought  they  could 
take  Willoughby  Motors  away  from  the  man  that 
made  the  company  I  Thought  they  could  dictate  the 
policy  of  the  company,  change  my  policy,  and 
destroy  the  thing  that  I  have  been  working  to  build  I 
They  think  differently  now." 

She  does  not  interrupt  him;  she  draws  a  foot- 
stool across  the  room — he  does  not  offer  to  assist 
her — and  sits  down  before  him.  Her  face  is  hardly 
on  a  level  with  the  middle  of  his  waistcoat,  but  her 
eyes  look  up  to  his.  He  does  not  see  how  deeply 
violet  they  are. 

"Annual  election  of  officers  to-day,"  he  says. 
"They  caught  me  napping.  I  ought  to  have  known 
better,  ought  to  have  known  that  business  is  busi- 
ness and  friendship  lives  in  another  street.  But 
how  could  I  know  that  my  friends  would  turn  on 
me  T  I  believed  that  Brewer  and  Eiker  and  Sammis 
were  my  friends,  that  they  had  more  sense  than  to 
question  my  judgment." 

The  last  sentence  is  illuminating. 

"I  guess  they  won't  question  it  again,"  he  con- 
tinues. "They've  had  all  the  fight  knocked  out  of 
them.  Think  of  it !  I  came  into  the  meeting  of  the 
stockholders  and  directors  a  little  late.  I  had  been 
busy  closing  a  deal  with  a  steel  man  from  Pittsburgh. 
New  method  of  treating  steel  for  springs.  Well,  I  sup- 
posed that  all  the  routine  business  would  be  attended 
to,  that  I'd  be  re-elected  president  of  the  company. 

"And  they'd  elected  Eiker,  with  Brewer  as  treas- 
urer, and  Sammis  as  chairman  of  the  board  of 
directors.  The  last  two  were  all  right ;  same  places 
they've  held  for  the  last  two  years;  but  why  Riker 
in  my  job! 


108  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

"Sitting  there  like  a  lot  of  Chessy  cats;  Chessy 
cats  that  had  been  licking  cream  and  didn't  care  a 
damn  who  knew  it. 

"  'Why?'  "I  asked. 

"You  ought  to  have  heard  'em  then.  No  future 
for  an  automobile  made  to  sell  for  way  below  a 
thousand  dollars.  People  never  would  get  the  idea 
that  the  motor  car  was  a  necessity,  not  a  luxury. 
Only  field  was  the  rich.  Lot  of  damn'  vision-less 
fools!  I  told  them  so.  They  laughed  at  me.  And 
I  walked  out.  They  didn't  like  my  policy;  they 
thought  the  man  who  had  made  the  Pinnacle  Bicycle 
didn't  have  his  fingers  on  the  pulse  of  the  people. 
They  thought  the  man  that  built  Willoughby  Motors, 
in  less  than  five  years,  into  a  concern  doing  a  ten 
million  dollar  business,  didn't  know  the  capacity  of 
the  American  people  for  acquiring  new  needs. 
Didn't  like  my  policy! 

"I  went  out;  I  knew  they'd  be  there  a  couple  of 
hours,  arranging  details.  I  jumped  in  my  car  and 
went  to  Bromfield.  Got  there  in  twenty  minutes. 
Old  Belton  was  in  his  office.  I  walked  right  in  and 
sat  down  before  him." 

He  looks  around  for  a  place  in  which  to  deposit 
his  half -smoked  and  half -chewed  cigar.  Ramsey's 
fingers  take  it  from  his;  he  is  unconscious  of  her 
action ;  he  lights  another  cigar  which  she  hands  him. 
She  does  not  throw  the  old  stump  away;  her  eyes 
are  shining  and  her  lips  are  parted;  if  excitement 
were  simulated  before,  it  is  not  now.  Perhaps  this 
is  The  Magnificent 's  greatest  hold  upon  her:  he 
interests  her. 

He  leans  back  in  his  chair  and  chuckles ;  ho  puffs 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  109 

at  the  fresh  cigar.  "  'How  much  stock  in  Belton 
Motors  do  you  own?'  I  asked  him. 

"  'Why?'  he  questioned  me.  Trust  the  old  Yankee 
to  answer  one  question  with  another. 

"  'I  want  to  buy  it,'  I  told  him. 

"  'Fifty-five  thousand  shares,'  he  answered. 

"  'How  much  will  you  take  for  them!'  I  asked. 

"  'Par,'  the  old  burglar  answered. 

"I  looked  at  him;  I've  done  a  little  business  with 
him  before ;  I  know  him  and  I  know  the  breed. 

' '  '  Take  my  note  T '  I  asked  him. 

"  'I'd  want  about  twenty  percent  cash,  and  I'd 
want  the  notes  to  begin  maturing  within  six  months, ' 
he  told  me. 

"It  was  a  hard  bargain,  but  I  closed  with  him.  I 
gave  him  a  check  for  a  million,  my  notes  for  four 
and  a  half  million  and  agreed  to  have  the  stock  put 
in  escrow  as  security  for  the  notes,  with  me,  how- 
ever, to  have  the  privilege  of  voting  the  stock.  We 
made  a  memorandum  of  the  agreement,  had  it  wit- 
nessed by  a  notary  in  his  office,  and  I  was  back  at  the 
Willoughby  Company  an  hour  and  a  half  after  I  had 
left,  with  my  copy  of  the  agreement  in  my  pocket. 

"I  didn't  waste  any  time  at  all.  I  walked  into  the 
board  room  and  found  the  gang  still  in  session. 

"  'Gentlemen,'  I  said,  'I  own  thirty  thousand 
shares  of  Willoughby  Motors.  They're  worth  a  hun- 
dred and  ten.  I'll  take  eighty-five  for  cash.' 

' '  Riker  was  the  first  to  speak.  I  never  knew  how 
oily  he  was  before.  Told  me  that  I  mustn't  be 
impetuous;  said  that  they  wanted  my  business  and 
executive  brains  in  the  company.  Said  that  simply 
because  they  didn't  agree  with  my  idea  of  making  a 


110  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

cheap  car  didn't  mean  that  they  considered  me  a 
poor  manufacturer  or  a  poor  merchant.  I  must 
stick  with  the  concern. 

11  'Too  late,'  I  told  them.  'I've  acquired  control 
of  the  Belton  Company.  To-morrow  I'm  going  to 
move  my  things  over  to  Bromfield.  Within  six 
months  there  won't  be  any  guessing  about  the  will- 
ingness of  the  American  public  to  buy  cheap  motor 
cars  in  quantities.  We'll  know! 

"I  had  them!  I  knew  it  and  they  knew  it.  They'd 
never  dreamed  that  I'd  walk  out  of  the  company. 
They  needed  me,  and  I  knew  they  did.  But  they 
thought  they  could  keep  me  as  a  subordinate. 
They've  learned  better. 

* '  They  fussed  and  fumed  and  begged  and  pleaded. 
But  I  had  them. ' '  He  laughs  loudly.  * '  I  made  them 
draw  up  agreements  on  the  spot  whereby  the  Wil- 
loughby  Motors  Company  took  over  my  agreement 
with  Belton;  I  made  them  pay  me  nine  million  dol- 
lars for  what  had  cost  me  five  and  a  half  million.  I 
made  them  give  me  two  million  cash.  There  are  a 
lot  of  details  to  be  settled  yet,  but  the  result  of  it  all 
is  that  we  formed  a  holding  company  to  own  both 
Willoughby  and  Belton;  I'm  to  be  president  of  the 
holding  company,  owning  fifty-one  percent  of  the 
stock. 

1  'Now,  what  do  you  think  of  that?" 

Ramsey  looks  slightly  bewildered.  "I  don't  think 
I  understand  it  all,"  she  says,  "but  it  sounds 
Napoleonic. ' ' 

He  smiles  complacently.  "I  don't  know,"  he  ad- 
mits, "just  what  sort  of  a  business  man  Napoleon 
would  have  made,  but  I'm  sure  he  would  have  been 
a  great  poker  player.  And  any  poker  player  would 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  111 

admire  what  I  got  away  with  to-day.  If  Biker  and 
the  rest  had  known  that  I  was  bluffing  they'd  have 
burst  blood  vessels. ' ' 

Ramsey  is  more  than  slightly  bewildered  now; 
she  is  completely  puzzled. 

"Bluffing?"  she  asks. 

The  Magnificent  laughs  gaily.  '  *  When  I  gave  old 
Belton  that  check  for  a  million  I  didn't  have  a  hun- 
dred thousand  cash  in  the  world. ' ' 

Ramsey  knits  her  brows.  ' '  How  could  you  give  a 
check  for  more  than  you  had?" 

"I  couldn't,  but  I  did,"  he  tells  her.  "Now,  of 
course,  I  have  deposited  two  million  in  the  bank. 
The  check  I  gave  Belton  will  be  met  all  right 
to-morrow." 

She  is  still  uncomprehending.  * '  But  suppose  that 
your  bluff  hadn't  worked?  What  about  the  check 
you  gave  Mr.  Belton,  in  that  case?" 

"Oh,  I'd  have  had  to  sell,  or  borrow  on  securities 
I  have,  until  I  raised  the  money. ' ' 

"But  that  might  have  taken  several  days,"  sug- 
gests Ramsey. 

"It  certainly  would  have  taken  some  time," 
agrees  The  Magnificent. 

"And  what  would  Mr.  Belton  have  done?"  asks 
Ramsey. 

"He  couldn't  do  anything,  unless  he  could  prove 
fraud,"  says  her  husband.  "He'd  have  got  his 
money. ' ' 

"But  not   to-morrow  morning,   as  he   expected 
when  he  made  the  contract  with  you."    Ramsey's 
voice  seems,  to  The  Magnificent,  to  hold  accusation. 
'Well,  what  of  that?"  challenges  Willoughby. 
'You  said  that  you  were  bluffing.    If  Mr.  Belton 


. . 


112  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

couldn't  do  anything,  but  must  go  through  with  the 
agreement,  how  were  you  bluffing?"  asks  Ramsey. 

For  an  instant  The  Magnificent 's  aplomb  leaves 
him.  "Well,"  he  concedes, ."he  might  maintain 
that  time  of  payment  was  of  the  essence  of  the  con- 
tract, and  so  make  our  agreement  void.  What  are 
you  driving  at,  anyway?"  he  demands.  There  is 
suspicion  in  his  voice. 

"I'm  not  sure,"  says  Ramsey  slowly.  "I'm  try- 
ing to  understand. ' ' 

The  Magnificent 's  forehead  wrinkles  in  a  frown. 
"What's  there  to  understand?  Anyone  would  think 
that  you  disapproved  of  what  I've  done." 

She  straightens  up  on  the  foot-stool.  "It  isn't  a 
matter  of  my  approval  or  disapproval." 

"Then  what's  it  a  matter  of?"  demands  her  hus- 
band. 

She  rises  from  the  foot-stool  and  walks  to  her 
dressing  table.  "Let's  not  discuss  it,"  she  says. 

"Damnation!  Let's  discuss  it.  Anyone  would 
think,  to  listen  to  you,  that  I'd  done  something 
dishonest. ' ' 

"Haven't  you?"  she  asks,  turning  to  him. 

"Belton  will  get  his  money — to-morrow.  If  I 
hadn't  been  able  to  bluff  Riker  and  the  others,  he 
might  have  had  to  wait  a  few  days  for  the  million. 
But  delaying  payment  isn't  being  dishonest,  is  it?" 

"Why  ask  me?"  says  Ramsey.  "Haven't  you 
already  answered  it  for  yourself?" 

"You  don't  understand  a  single,  solitary  damn* 
thing  about  business,"  he  cries. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  swear  so  much,"  protests 
Ramsey. 

"Hell,"  says  her  husband,  storming  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Mine  host  of  The  Commercial  House  watches  sul- 
lenly the  labors  of  a  group  of  laborers  in  the  street 
below  the  porch  whereon  he  sits. 

"Lazy  Ginnies,"  he  mutters. 

The  drummer  for  Perigord's  soap — his  real  line 
nowadays  is  the  establishing  of  agencies  for  the 
,  selling  of  varnish  and  nickel  polish  for  motor  car 
bodies — grunts  approval. 

"Ruinin'  the  country,"  he  says. 

Uncle  Frank  leans  forward ;  he  clears  the  veranda 
rail  easily;  he  leans  back  again  in  his  chair,  com- 
fortably, his  manner  slightly  self -applauding.  An 
upper  tooth  has  been  bothering  him  a  bit  lately  and 
against  its  sensitive  surface  he  presses,  with  his 
tongue,  a  well  masticated  chunk  of  Navy  Twist.  He 
holds  it  there  a  moment,  until  its  emollient  touch 
has  soothed  the  aching  nerve  and  gratified  his  soul. 

"I  wouldn't  say  they  was  exactly  ruinin'  any- 
thing," he  remonstrates.  "That's  a  nice  lookin' 
sewer  they're  diggin'." 

"You  know  what  I  mean,  and  you  said  yourself 
they  were  lazy,"  retorts  Perigord's  representative. 

"Everybody's  lazy,"  explains  Uncle  Frank. 

"But  look  at  'em!"  says  the  drummer  indig- 
nantly. "Just  soldiering  on  the  job.  A  lot  of 
damn'  foreigners  coming  over  here  and  driving 
honest  American  labor  into  the  poor-house!" 

Uncle  Frank  yields  to  the  filthy  necessity  which 

118 


114  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

his  regrettable  self  indulgence  creates;  once  again 
he  clears  the  veranda  rail.  Some  day  his  aim  is  not 
going  to  be  so  accurate,  and  then  we  will  know  that 
Uncle  Frank  is  growing  old.  At  present  the  muscles 
of  his  cheeks  and  lips  are  vigorous.  For  upwards 
of  twenty  years  he  has  sat  every  morning  in  the 
same  place  on  The  Commercial  House  porch;  he  has 
not  yielded  to  time  by  moving  one  inch  nearer  the 
rail. 

"I  ain't  much  worried  about  American  labor 
being  driven  into  the  poor-house  by  a  lot  of  wops," 
says  Uncle  Frank.  "It's  been  being  driven  there  too 
daggone  long.  First  the  Irish  was  goin'  to  do  it, 
and  it  looked  like  the  Germans  might,  and  it  was  a 
cinch  the  Ginnies  would,  and  there  wasn't  any 
doubt  about  the  Polacks.  Them  are  Polacks  down 
there,  not  Ginnies."  He  corrects  his  first  descrip- 
tion of  them. 

"They  all  look  alike  to  me,"  says  Perigord's 
ambassador.  "All  lazy  good-for-nothing  foreign- 
ers." 

"My  great  grandfather  was  probably  usin'  them 
same  friendly  words  about  your  great  grandfather, ' ' 
says  Uncle  Frank,  sarcastically.  '  *  Seems  to  me  you 
got  a  Heinie  sort  of  a  name,  ain't  you,  Kramer?" 

"My  family  been  here  two  hundred  years,"  pro- 
tests Kramer  indignantly. 

"Mine's  been  here  two  hundred  and  fifty,"  says 
Uncle  Frank.  "You  smell  kind  of  new  to  me." 

"Aw,  you  know  what  I  mean,"  says  the  drum- 
mer. "What  are  we  coming  to  with  all  Europe 
dumping  its  leavings  on  us?  What's  gonna  happen 
to  the  American  ideal  f ' ' 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  115 

"Oh,  it'll  keep  right  on  making  money,"  Uncle 
Frank  assures  him. 

"You  don't  take  it  serious,"  reproaches  Peri- 
gord's  plenipotentiary. 

"The  older  I  get  the  less  I  believe  that  anything 
is  serious  except  toothache  and  dyspepsia.  I've 
been  through  eight  or  ten  national  campaigns  and 
I've  seen  the  country  rocking  to  ruin  so  daggone 
often  that  I've  kind  of  lost  my  faith  in  catastrophe. 
It  don't  come  off  on  schedule.  If  we  ain't  big  enough 
to  take  a  lot  of  half-starved  Europeans  and  put 
some  meat  on  their  bones,  we  ain't  big  enough  to  do 
anything.  Once  get  the  beef  on  them  and  they'll  be 
all  right. ' '  The  healing  juices  of  well  chewed  Navy 
Twist  have  made  Uncle  Frank  forget  his  toothache. 
His  sullenness  has  left  him. 

"But  here's  Mr.  Roosevelt  tellin'  us  that  if  we 
don't  raise  bigger  families  we'll  suicide  the  whole 
race,"  argues  the  drummer.  "What  you  got  to  say 
to  that?" 

"I  notice  the  Japs  are  knocking  hell  out  of  the 
Russians,"  says  Uncle  Frank. 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  our  argument?"  de- 
mands the  drummer. 

"It  just  proves  that  bigness  ain't  everything," 
answers  Uncle  Frank. 

"If  all  them  foreigners  raise  big  families  like 
they're  doing  now,  you'll  find  that  bigness  means  a 
whole  lot,"  says  Perigord's  man. 

"They'll  quit  raising  them  in  another  genera- 
tion," says  Uncle  Frank. 

"You  ain't  worried  then  because  Americans  are 
getting  fewer  and  foreigners  getting  more  and  more 
numerous?  It  don't  mean  anything  to  you  that 


116  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

they're  changing  American  life?"    The  man  from 
Perigord  is  patriotically  indignant. 

*  *  We  've  changed  anyway, ' '  says  Uncle  Frank.  * ' 1 
hear  a  lot  of  talk  about  the  Europeans  coming  over 
here  and  taking  away  our  birthright.  I  hear  gab 
about  the  changed  American  idea  and  ideal.  As  if 
anything  but  ourselves  could  have  changed  us.  The 
whole  country  is  like  a  man  that's  worked  like  a 
slave  most  of  his  life,  and  then  found  out  that  he  had 
money  enough  to  keep  him  the  rest  of  his  life,  and 
that  he  was  sick  of  work  anyway.  What  does  he 
do  ?  He  travels  awhile,  and  then  builds  a  big  house, 
and  packs  it  full  of  servants,  and  maybe  takes  up 
this  golf  that  I  hear  the  young  fellers  mention. 
He  takes  it  easy.  He  ain't  changed  any;  his  op- 
portunities have  changed;  that's  all.  The  way 
folks  like  you  talk  you'd  think  this  country  had 
an  ideal  all  printed  and  posted  around  every- 
where for  everyone  to  look  at  and  learn  by  heart. 
And  you'd  think  the  people  in  Europe,  as  soon  as 
they  got  over  here,  went  around  tearing  down  the 
posters." 

"Well,  they  take  jobs  away  from  our  own  boys," 
insists  Perigord 's  man. 

"Is  that  so?  I  don't  see  any  mothers  in  this  town 
weeping  because  their  boys  have  been  robbed  of 
their  opportunities  to  dig  sewers,"  says  Uncle 
Frank.  "As  long  as  the  foreigner  will  do  the  dirty 
work  we've  grown  too  proud  to  do,  there  ain't  much 
kick.  It's  when  his  sons  get  to  college  and  land  a 
good  job  that  talk  begins." 

"Well,  ain't  that  natural?"  asks  the  drummer. 

"Sure  it  is,"  agrees  Uncle  Frank.  "Everything's 
natural.  What  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  117 

The  man  from  Perigord's  arises  from  his  chair. 
"You  don't  talk  sense,"  he  declares.  " There  ought 
to  be  a  law." 

He  stalks  across  the  veranda  and  into  the  lobby 
of  The  Commercial  House.  Uncle  Frank  sinks 
lower  in  his  chair ;  his  eyes  half  close ;  he  is  wooing 
slumber ;  it  does  not  come  to  him.  For  all  his  light 
treatment  of  weighty  subjects,  Uncle  Frank  some- 
times takes  them  quite  seriously.  The  only  differ- 
ence between  Uncle  Frank  and  the  majority  of  his 
neighbors  is  that  Uncle  Frank  is  inclined  to  believe 
that  certain  things  are  inevitable.  A  child,  muses 
Uncle  Frank,  may  lose  his  first  front  tooth  by  biting 
on  a  hard  piece  of  candy;  but  the  tooth  would  have 
fallen  out  within  a  week,  anyway.  What  was  hap- 
pening to  America  was  inevitable.  To  shut  people 
out  because  they  thought  differently  from  the 
founders  of  the  nation  would  not  prevent  the  en- 
trance of  those  different  thoughts  into  American 
life.  Shutting  them  out  might  delay  the  entrance, 
but  only  temporarily. 

Mr.  Roosevelt  might  preach  the  simple  life,  but 
people  who  could  afford  opera  tickets  and  liveried 
servants  would  not  accept  his  preaching  for  them- 
selves ;  he  might  inveigh  against  small  families,  but 
without  avail.  Uncle  Frank  wonders  how  many  of 
the  mothers  of  large  families  of  the  earlier  Ameri- 
can day  welcomed  each  new  addition  to  the  house- 
hold. Was  woman's  repugnance  to  being  a  brood 
animal  something  new,  or  had  it  always  existed? 
Increased  wealth  meant  increased  opportunity  for 
education ;  education  tends  to  rob  a  man  of  his  crass 
brutalities;  he  looks  upon  his  wife  as  a  companion 


118  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

more  than  as  a  relief  for  his  passions  and  a  provider 
of  cheap  labor. 

Uncle  Frank  ceases  pondering  the  insolvable ;  his 
eyes  completely  close  and  his  head  falls  forward  on 
his  great  chest ;  he  sleeps.  A  waitress  emerges  from 
the  front  door  and  crossing  the  veranda,  touches 
Uncle  Frank  upon  the  shoulder. 

1  'Dinner's  ready,"  she  announces. 

Uncle  Frank  awakes  with  a  start;  he  heaves  him- 
self from  his  chair.  Across  the  street  a  woman 
waves  a  gay  hand  to  him;  Uncle  Frank  returns  the 
salutation,  and  accompanies  it  with  a  word  anent 
the  weather.  Ramsey  Willoughby  agrees  that  it  is 
pleasant,  and  continues  down  the  hill. 

Uncle  Frank's  eyes  are  rarely  harsh;  they  are 
nearly  always  kindly.  But  as  he  looks  after  the 
graceful  figure  of  Ramsey,  his  eyes  are  more  than 
gentle;  they  are  affectionate.  Also  they  seem 
slightly  worried.  The  sigh  that  comes  from  his  lips 
as  he  turns  into  the  hotel  cannot  be  caused  by  any 
recollection  of  his  discussion  with  Perigord's  drum- 
mer. The  cares  of  the  nation  do  not  weigh  that 
heavily  upon  Uncle  Frank. 

He  enters  his  hotel  and  makes  a  brief  toilet;  it 
consists  in  removing  from  his  mouth,  with  the  palm 
of  his  hand,  that  portion  of  Navy  Twist  which  has 
lived  its  life.  Then  he  enters  the  dining  room.  But 
the  greetings  that  he  exchanges  with  his  guests  lack 
his  usual  joviality.  He  dines  with  less  gusto  than 
usual.  Finished,  a  certain  unwonted  restlessness 
possesses  him. 

Why  did  Ramsey  Willoughby  turn  left  on  Front 
Street?  Where  was  she  going?  Not  that  it  is  any 
of  Uncle  Frank's  business,  but  still  ....  He 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  119 

guesses  that  he'll  drop  down  the  hill  and  look  in  on 
Sam  Foyle.  He  hasn't  seen  Sam  lately;  he  disap- 
proves most  highly  of  the  manner  in  which  Sam 
dodged  a  fight.  Better  for  Sam  to  have  been  im- 
peached than  to  have  resigned  without  a  battle.  It 
doesn't  sound  like  Sam.  Nevertheless,  friendship 
is  friendship  with  Uncle  Frank.  Just  because  a 
friend  doesn't  measure  up  all  the  time  is  no  reason 
why  one  should  forget  his  existence.  Thus  Uncle 
Frank  answers  a  conscience  which  tells  him  that  he 
is  a  nosey  busybody. 

He  enters  the  house  where  Foyle  still  lives,  dis- 
pensing with  the  formality  of  a  knock.  He  walks  to 
the  door  of  the  living  room  of  the  ex-mayor  of  Old- 
port.  He  pauses  a  moment;  he  hears  a  feminine 
voice.  It  is  saying, 

"Nothing  matters,  Sam,  except  you  and  me." 

Uncle  Frank's  heavy  fist  strikes  the  door.  In  a 
moment  it  is  opened  by  Foyle.  The  face  of  the  ex- 
mayor  is  white,  and  his  voice,  as  he  greets  his 
visitor,  trembles. 

4  *  How-do,  Uncle  Frank, ' '  says  Foyle.  ' '  Come  in. ' ' 

"I'm  comin',"  says  Uncle  Frank.  There  is  a  hint 
of  grimness  in  his  tones.  He  enters  the  room  and 
sees  Ramsey  Willoughby.  She  is  seated  in  a  chair ; 
her  hands  are  lying  limply  upon  the  arms  of  the 
chair;  her  face  is  as  white  as  Foyle 's. 

"Well,  it's  good  to  see  you,  Ramsey,"  says  Uncle 
Frank. 

"It's  good  to  see  you,  Uncle  Frank,"  says 
Ramsey. 

Uncle  Frank  turns  to  Foyle.  "Now  you  say  that 
you're  glad  I'm  here  and  we'll  all  three  be  liars." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  demands  Foyle. 


120  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

" What's  she  doin'  here?"  Uncle  Frank  jerks  an 
accusing  thumb  at  Ramsey. 

Mrs.  Willoughby  laughs.  "What  a  dear  old- 
fashioned  thing  you  are,  Uncle  Frank." 

"And  what  a  dear  old-fashioned  thing  you're 
doing,"  says  Uncle  Frank.  "You  don't  think  so; 
you  think  you're  doing  something  noble.  Hell!" 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?"  Eamsey  is  highly 
indignant  as  she  puts  the  question  that  Foyle  has 
already  asked. 

"You  know  what  I  mean,"  says  Uncle  Frank. 
"And  you  know  that  I  ain't  so  far  behind  the  times 
but  that  I  know  a  lady  can  call  on  a  gentleman  with- 
out anything  being  wrong.  I  'm  up  to  date,  all  right. 
The  point  is  that  while  a  lady  can,  she  don't." 

"Be  careful,  Uncle  Frank,"  says  Foyle. 

"You  be  careful,"  blusters  Uncle  Frank. 

A  pause  follows,  in  which  the  only  sound  is  the 
heavy  breathing  of  Uncle  Frank.  Suddenly  he 
speaks.  "Ramsey,  I  heard  what  you  were  sayin'. 
I  heard  you  say  that  nothing  mattered  except  you 
and  Sam.  How  many  women  do  you  suppose  say 
that  every  year?  How  many  women  do  you  think 
been  sayin'  that  for  thousands  of  years?  You  call 
me  old-fashioned.  But  it's  pretty  old-fashioned  to 
run  away  from  your  husband.  Women  been  doin' 
that  since  time  began.  And  it  ain't  ever  done  any 
good  yet.  It  never  will  do  any  good. ' ' 

"I  suppose,"  says  Ramsey,  "that  if  people  make 
a  mistake  they  must  suffer  for  it  until  they  die." 
She  is  contemptuously  sarcastic. 

"What  mistake  did  you  make  when  you  married 
Jim  Willoughby?"  demands  Uncle  Frank.  "You 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  121 

loved  him,  didn't  you?  He  loved  you,  didn't  he! 
Where's  the  mistake  in  that?" 

" We've  changed;  we  don't  love  each  other  now," 
says  Ramsey. 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  asks  Uncle 
Frank. 

"Love  has  everything  to  do  with  marriage,  hasn't 
it?"  retorts  Eamsey. 

"You  make  me  tired,"  says  Uncle  Frank.  "You 
talk  like  you  were  seventeen.  What's  love  got  to  do 
with  marriage ?  There's  children  and  the  home.  If 
you've  got  love,  too,  you're  lucky,  but  it  ain't  neces- 
sarily part  of  marriage." 

"And  you  see  nothing  wrong,  nothing  indecent,  in 
two  people  who  no  longer  love  each  other  living 
together  as  man  and  wife  ? ' '  asks  Ramsey. 

"I  see  something  a  daggone  sight  more  indecent 
in  people  quitting  on  their  responsibilities.  What's 
this  love  thing,  anyway?  If  you  cease  to  love  one 
man,  how  do  you  know  you  're  not  going  to  stop  lov- 
ing another  man?  And  anyway  you  can  wait  a  few 
days." 

Ramsey's  eyes  are  bewildered.  "A  few  days?" 
she  asks. 

"Until  he's  decently  buried,"  says  Uncle  Frank. 

"Until  who's  decently  buried?"  demands  Foyle. 

"Jim  Willoughby,  of  course,"  replies  Uncle 
Frank. 

The  languor  leaves  Ramsey;  she  leaps  to  her 
feet ;  one  hand  goes  to  her  bosom  and  the  other  un- 
certainly touches  her  lips. 

"Is  Jim — "  She  sways,  and  her  pallor  is  sud- 
denly ghastly. 

Uncle  Frank  laughs.    "I  thought  I'd  show  you," 


122  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

he  says.    "  There  ain't  a  thing  the  matter  with  Jim 
Willoughby,  so  far's  I  know." 

Eamsey  sits  down  again ;  she  almost  falls  into  the 
chair.  Uncle  Frank  glares  at  her.  * '  You  know  dag- 
gone  well  that  you'd  never  left  your  husband,  Ram- 
sey Willoughby."  He  turns  to  Sam  Foyle.  "You're 
a  hell  of  a  home-wrecker!  Why  didn't  you  throw 
me  out  when  I  first  came  in?" 

Eamsey  laughs  scornfully.  "He  was  glad  when 
you  came.  A  few  days  ago  he  threatened  to  take 
me.  But  when  I  offered  myself,  he  didn't  dare." 

Uncle  Frank  looks  at  Foyle.  "Is  that  true?"  he 
asks. 

Foyle  colors.  "Eamsey  didn't  mean  what  she 
was  saying." 

Uncle  Frank  laughs  shortly.  '  *  Ashamed  to  admit 
you  got  decency,  eh?"  He  turns  to  Eamsey.  "You 
come  along  with  me,"  he  orders. 

She  follows  him  from  the  room,  out  of  the  house, 
to  the  street.  Opposite  The  Commercial  House 
Uncle  Frank  stops.  He  eyes  her  curiously. 

"Eamsey,"  he  says,  "if  I  hadn't  come  down 
there,  would  you  and  Sam  have  run  away 
together?" 

Eamsey  has  recovered  her  self-possession;  there 
is  the  faintest  twinkle  in  her  violet  eyes.  "I  think, 
Uncle  Frank,"  she  says,  "that  Jim  would  have 
known  about  our  flight  in  time  to  stop  it." 

Uncle  Frank  shakes  his  head.  "I  suspected 
something  like  that.  Only,  while  that  might  have 
been  a  good  way  to  make  The  Magnificent  realize 
certain  things,  I'm  not  so  sure  that  Foyle  would 
have  let  go  as  easy  as  you  think. ' ' 

[He  never  would  have  dared  take  hold,"  says 


<  i ' 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  123 

Ramsey.  Her  eyes  are  hard  as  she  speaks  of 
Foyle. 

"I  ain't  altogether  sure,  Ramsey,  that  you're  a 
good  woman,"  says  Uncle  Frank  severely.  "Fur- 
thermore, I  think  you  're  half  crazy. ' ' 

She  laughs  at  him,  dropping  him  a  little  curtsey 
of  mockery.  Long  after  she  is  out  of  sight  Uncle 
Frank  stares  after  her.  Unaccountably  he  feels 
that  he  has  made  a  fool  of  himself;  or,  more  cor- 
rectly perhaps,  that  Ramsey  has  made  a  fool  of  him. 
He  expectorates  savagely  upon  the  sidewalk.  He 
mutters  to  himself  as  he  crosses  the  street. 

"Damn'  lot  of  foreign  ideas  getting  into  people's 
heads — divorces — foreign — un-American — " 


CHAPTER  XH 

Cranahan's  girl 

A  youth  who  preferred  over-alls  to  cap  and  gown ; 
a  youth  who  turned  his  back  on  the  traditions  of  his 
fathers  to  make  his  own  traditions;  a  petty  manu- 
facturer; a  great  manufacturer  and  merchant;  a 
controller  of  local  politics;  a  business  man  who  by 
his  shrewd  stroke  becomes  a  financier:  we  have 
seen  these  phases. 

Pinnacle  has  faded  away,  dimmed  by  the  radiance 
of  Willoughby  Motors.  Once  we  said  that  the  be- 
ginnings and  the  end  of  Pinnacle  might  be  the  begin- 
ning and  end  of  The  Magnificent.  The  solid 
foundations,  then  the  sudden  growth,  the  terrific 
expansion,  the  oblivion.  But  had  we  confined  our- 
selves to  Pinnacle  we  would  have  told  only  the  story 
of  one  Magnificent;  feebly  we  are  attempting  the 

story  of  several.  How  alike  they  are Do  we 

live  several  lives  in  our  brief  existence,  and  are  they 
all  the  same  ?  Are  all  the  other  lives  lived  around  us 
exactly  the  same  as  our  own?  We  see  no  difference 
between  the  two  worms  crawling  on  the  rain-wet 
earth.  Yet  the  scientist  with  his  magnifying  glass 
sees  two  identities.  Perhaps  the  glass  is  levelled  at 

us Is  our  identity  what  we  are,  what  we  do, 

or  what  we  think? 

Cranahan's  girl !  We  come  to  her,  and,  coming  to 
her,  we  laugh  or  weep  or  shrug  our  shoulders, 
depending  on  our  point  of  view.  The  face  that 

125 


126  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

launched  a  thousand  ships  is  born  anew  in  every 
generation.  She  had  that  face,  had  Cranahan's  girl. 

Compare  her  with  Ramsey  Willoughby  and  won- 
der. Set  the  two  faces  side  by  side;  note  the  long- 
lashed  violet  eyes,  gentle,  honest,  livened  by  a  glean? 
of  merriment,  of  the  wife;  see  the  black  eyes,  bold, 
provocative,  and  hard,  of  the  mistress.  Look  at  the 
sweet,  warm  mouth  of  Eamsey,  and  then  at  the  lips 
of  Minta  Haydon,  and  observe  how  thin  they  are. 
The  black  hair  of  Cranahan's  girl  has  no  more 
beauty  than  the  blonde  curls  of  The  Magnificent 's 
wife.  The  lithe  figure  of  the  kept  woman  is  hardly 
more  slender,  and  certainly  no  more  beautifully 
moulded  than  the  body  of  the  honorably  wedded 
wife.  Yet  any  man  will  look  twice  at  the  mistress 
and  once  at  the  wife.  For  it  is  not  the  unattainable 
that  attracts  the  errant  fancy  of  the  male ;  it  is  that 
which  he  thinks  he  may  acquire. 

Sex!  The  curse  and  the  blessing  and  the  raison 
d'etre  of  humanity.  Minta  Haydon,  in  every  glance 
of  her  brilliant  eyes,  in  every  quiver  of  her  thin  nos- 
trils, in  every  strand  of  her  burnished  hair,  in  every 
muscle  of  her  body,  speaks  of  sex.  She  is  the  body ; 
Kamsey  is  the  body  plus  the  soul.  No  permanent 
victory  can  be  won  by  the  Helens,  but  the  ruin  of 
their  temporary  triumphs  may  not  be  repaired  in 
one  lifetime.  In  the  -end  love  must  conquer  passion, 
but  what  if  there  be  not  love? 

She  is  Cranahan's  girl,  and,  until  Cranahan 
should  tire  of  her,  as  inviolate  to  the  rest  of  male 
humanity  as  Cranahan's  wife.  For  Cranahan  can 
make  or  break  anyone.  The  banking  house  on  Wall 
Street  which  bears  his  name  has  existed  for  three 
generations.  No  considerable  financial  matter  can 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  127 

be  transacted  in  the  United  States  if  Cranahan  dis- 
approves, and  if  he  grants  approval,  in  some  way 
the  matter  inures  to  the  profit  of  Cranahan  and 
Company.  Cranahan  has  branches  in  London,  in 
Paris,  in  Berlin,  in  Vienna,  in  Borne.  He  has  agents 
in  the  other  lesser  capitals ;  governments  float  loans 
through  Cranahan  and  Company.  Our  own  Federal 
government  leans,  in  times  of  stress,  on  Cranahan. 

A  word  from  him  and  the  obscure  bank  in  your 
obscure  town  will  refuse  a  loan  to  your  obscure  self. 
For  the  nerve  center  of  the  nation,  financially,  is  in 
Wall  Street,  and  Cranahan  is  Wall  Street. 

He  lives  like  a  king,  and  princes  are  his  intimates. 
He  bids  against  royalty  for  the  art  treasures  of  a 
nation  and  then  royally  presents  his  purchase  to  the 
unsuccessful  bidder.  He  ravages  and  rapes  the 
store-rooms  of  the  world,  and  he  builds  himself  a 
castle  in  which  to  house  his  conquests.  We  read  that 
he  has  paid  four  hundred  thousand  dollars  for  a 
painting  and  we  thrill  with  justifiable  pride.  He  is 
taking  from  Europe  the  evidences  of  her  culture; 
we  have  made  America  the  business  center  of  the 
world ;  Cranahan  will  make  it  the  cultural  center.  A 
great  man  who  does  things  greatly,  who  hires  ex- 
perts to  tell  him  what  he  shall  admire  and  how  much 
to  pay  for  it. 

We  like  to  imagine  him  walking  into  the  great 
hall  of  his  castle  to  superintend  his  experts  as  they 
unpack  an  ancient  vase  for  which  he  has  paid  thirty 
thousand  dollars,  and  which  he  has  not  seen  until 
to-day.  The  best  in  sewers,  plumbing  that  would 
make  a  Roman  emperor  sick  with  envy,  the  best 
trains  in  the  world,  the  best  French  cooking,  the  best 
English  boot  makers,  the  best  Irish  linen,  the  best 


128  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

Spanish  lace,  the  best  African  diamonds,  the  best 
Chinese  lacquer,  the  best  Russian  furs — the  whole 
world  works  for  us!  Lean  back  in  your  chair  and 
pick  your  teeth  with  a  solid  gold  toothpick  and  brag ! 
Hell,  we  got  more  art  in  New  York  City  than  they 
got  in  the  whole  of  Europe!  No  wonder  we  love 
Cranahan. 

No  wonder  we  permit  him  liberties  and  licenses 
beyond  the  law.  If  a  visiting  potentate  arrives  in 
this  country,  it  is  Cranahan,  not  the  government, 
who  entertains  him.  If  Cranahan  returns  from  a  trip 
abroad  he  is  permitted  to  leave  the  ocean  liner  at 
Quarantine,  and  his  less  fortunate  fellow-passen- 
gers, who  must  endure  the  discomforts  of  the 
Customs,  envy  but  do  not  protest  at  this  favoritism. 
If  a  bill  is  pending  in  Congress,  Federal  officials 
cheerfully  respond  to  summonses  from  the  over- 
lord of  American  finance,  and  hasten  from  Waoh- 
ington  to  explain,  to  placate  and,  perhaps,  to  agree 
to  changes  in  the  wording  of  the  proposed  law. 

Time-servers  and  lickspittlers  surround  him.  The 
American  public  adores  him.  What  he  wants  he 
buys,  and  woe  betide  the  man  who  tries  to  take  from 
him  that  which  he  possesses  or  covets. 

Let  us  slip  quietly  into  his  inner  office  and  observe 
him  as  he  bestows  largesse  upon  one  and  refuses 
alms  to  another.  It  is  the  panic  time  of  1907.  Cur- 
rency has  almost  disappeared  in  the  business  houses 
of  New  York.  Clerks  are  being  paid  their  pitiful 
wages  in  checks.  Well-to-do  men  are  having  dif- 
ficulty in  finding  the  cash  with  which  to  pay  for 
theatre  tickets.  It  is  a  time  of  stress  and  turmoil. 
The  name  of  Roosevelt  is  never  uttered  by  the  upper 
classes  without  adjectives  that  are  vigorous,  exple- 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  129 

lives  that  are  warm.  It  is  no  time  for  the  raising 
of  capital. 

So  Cranahan  is  informing  The  Magnificent. 

He  has  lifted  his  massive  head,  with  the  untidy 
mass  of  iron-gray  hair,  from  the  barrel  chest  on 
which  it  continually  rests.  It  seems  that  his  neck 
muscles  are  not  strong  enough  to  support  the  weight 
imposed  on  them.  His  sunken  eyes — somewhat 
blurry — our  national  hero  is  not  too  abstemious  as 
regards  rich  foods  and  rare  wines — rest  on  the  face 
of  his  caller.  There  is  disapproval  in  the  eyes.  For 
there  is  a  jauntiness  in  the  manner  of  The  Mag- 
nificent that  is  slightly  offensive;  there  is  a  confi- 
dence in  the  way  he  leans  back  in  his  chair  that 
somehow  seems  slightly  disrespectful. 

"I  received  you,  Willoughby,"  says  Cranahan, 
4 'because  you've  been  doing  good  things,  and  I  don't 
want  you  to  make  any  mistake.  You  have  a  future. ' ' 

"That's  very  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Cranahan,"  replies 
The  Magnificent.  "I'm  thinking  of  the  present 
more  than  of  the  future,  however." 

The  over-lord  frowns.  "This  is  no  time  for  ex- 
pansion. It  is  a  time  for  retrenchment.  Your  plan 
for  amalgamating  the  leading  motor  companies  of 
the  country  is  a  good  one — bye  and  bye.  At  present 
I  strongly  disapprove  of  tying  up  capital  in  any  new 
venture.  I  want  you  to  drop  the  matter." 

The  Magnificent  smiles  deprecatingly.  "I've 
gone  quite  a  way  with  the  plan, ' '  he  says  quietly. 

"Drop  it,"  orders  Cranahan. 

He  turns  a  heavy  shoulder  toward  his  caller;  his 
chin  touches  the  second  button  of  his  white  shirt. 
Patently,  the  interview  is  over ;  the  king  has  spoken. 
But  The  Magnificent  lingers,  does  not  even  arise 


130  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

from  the  chair  in  which  he  is  seated,  even  crosses 
his  knees  and  caresses  an  ankle  with  one  hand. 

Cranahan  looks  up  again.  "You  heard  me?"  he 
demands. 

"You  haven't  heard  me,"  protests  Willoughby. 

"You've  talked  with  members  of  my  firm,"  says 
Cranahan.  "They've  heard  all  your  arguments.  I 
can't  waste  any  time  on  you.  A  hundred  people  are 
waiting  to  see  me  now. ' ' 

"But  I've  put  time  and  money  into  this  amalga- 
mation." The  Magnificent 's  voice  is  stubborn,  and 
his  bony  chin  is  prominent. 

Cranahan  cannot  believe  his  ears.  "Do  you  real- 
ize that  you  are  throwing  away  your  whole  career  T ' 
he  asks. 

The  Magnificent  laughs;  but  his  green  eyes  hold 
no  mirth.  "This  isn't  poker,  Mr.  Cranahan,"  he 
says.  "If  you  people  don't  want  to  help  me  I'll  get 
the  money  from  the  public. ' ' 

"In  this  state  of  the  market?"  jeers  Cranahan 
incredulously. 

"In  this  state  of  the  market,"  replies  Willoughby. 
"And  if  I  find  that  any  bank  refuses  legitimate 
loans,  or  harasses  me  in  any  way,  I'll  make  New 
York  too  hot  to  hold  the  man  responsible.  That 
goes  even  if  his  name  is  Stephen  Cranahan." 

"Get  out,"  roars  Cranahan. 

The  Magnificent  rises;  he  walks  quietly  to  the 
door.  He  turns.  "Even  if  his  name  is  Stephen 
Cranahan,"  he  says  again. 

He  strides  from  the  office,  smiling  quietly.  He 
has  not  been  betrayed,  by  momentary  anger,  into 
doing  something  that  he  regrets.  He  has  planned 
this  defiance,  this  threat.  He  made  his  first  entrance 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  131 

into  finance  when  he  forced  the  stockholders  of  Wil- 
loughby  Motors  to  recede  from  their  chosen  ground, 
and  pay  him  millions  as  punishment  for  their 
temerity  in  conspiring  against  him.  He  was  bluffing 
then ;  he  is  bluffing  now.  Yet  he  knows  exactly  what 
he  is  doing. 

Let  us  listen  to  Cranahan 's  girl,  to  the  words  of 
Minta  Haydon ;  she  can  tell  us  better,  perhaps,  than 
anyone  else,  exactly  how  The  Magnificent  made  his 
second  and  definite  entrance  into  finance.  She  is 
speaking  to  Volkman,  her  impresario. 

"Like  him?  Why  I'm  crazy  about  him,  Abe," 
she  declares. 

Her  manager  frowns.  "That  would  be  all  right, 
Minta,  if  Cranahan  was  anybody  else.  But,  my 
God,  he's  worth  a  hundred  million  dollars,  and  this 
Willoughby  guy  is  nobody. ' ' 

Cranahan 's  girl  smiles.  "I  wouldn't  exactly  call 
him  nobody,  Abe.  He  has  a  dollar  or  two,  you 
know. ' ' 

Volkman  looks  around  the  expensively  furnished 
boudoir.  Even  to  his  eyes  it  seems  garish,  a  bit  too 
flamboyant;  but  it  certainly  looks  like  money. 

' '  Yes, ' '  he  admits, ' '  but  how  long  will  he  have  it  I " 

"About  as  long  as  Cranahan,"  replies  the  kept 
woman.  "And  I've  got  mine,  Abe." 

The  manager  grins  approval.  "Then  you  ain't 
joking  about  the  theatre  he's  going  to  build  for 
you?" 

"I  wouldn't  have  cabled  you  to  hustle  back  from 
London  unless  I  was  in  earnest,"  she  assures  him. 

Volkman  lights  a  cigarette ;  he  eyes  with  relieved 
admiration  the  beautiful  woman  in  the  silken 
negligee.  * '  Tell  me  about  it,  Minta. ' ' 


132  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

"Well,"  says  Miss  Haydon,  "you  know  I  have 
ambition.  And  you  know  Steve  Cranahan  doesn't 
care  about  ambition  in  anyone  else.  There  have 
been  times  when  I've  wanted  to  slap  his  ugly  face 
and  order  him  out  of  my  house.  Twice  he  ruined 
successful  plays  of  mine  because  he  wanted  me  to  go 
to  Palm  Beach  or  London  or  some  other  fool  place. 
I  have  a  long  time  to  live,  I  hope,  and  I  grew  tired 
of  giving  the  best  years  to  Cranahan.  Jealous 
beast!" 

Her  manager  whistles  softly.  "You  never  talked 
this  way  about  him  before,"  he  declares. 

"Because  I  didn't  dare  call  my  soul  my  own," 
she  answers. 

"Well,  what  happened?"  demands  Volkman. 

She  laughs  reminiscently ;  the  animalism  of  her  is 
more  evident  in  her  laugh  than  in  anything  else 
about  her. 

"I'm  getting  near  the  breaking  point  with  Crana- 
han," she  explains.  "Like  almost  every  other  man 
that's  born  to  money  he's  stingy.  I  can  charge  any- 
thing I  want  anywhere,  and  he  '11  always  back  a  new 
show.  But  actual  cash."  ....  She  shrugs,  and 
her  manager  nods  understandingly. 

"Before  I  tied  up  with  Cranahan  there  were 
plenty  of  men  that  would  give  me  anything  I  wanted. 
But  as  soon  as  he  and  I  became  friendly  every  man 
steered  away  from  me.  That  is,  every  man  worth 
while.  They  were  afraid  of  him.  Then  one  day, 
Jim  called  on  me.  I  didn't  know  him,  but  he  gave 
Marie  a  hundred  dollars  to  take  his  name  in  to  me. 
That  would  interest  any  girl,  so  I  had  him  come  in. 

"He  didn't  waste  a  minute.  He  got  right  down  to 
cases.  He  told  me  that  he  was  having  a  financial 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  133 

battle  with  Cranahan.  When  I  told  him  that  he'd 
better  run  along  before  his  keeper  came  and  caught 
him,  he  reached  into  his  pocket  and  drew  out  a  thick 
package.  Abe,"  her  voice  lowers,  "there  were  one 
hundred  thousand-dollar  bills  in  that  package. 

"  'Miss  Haydon',  he  says,  'you're  Cranahan 's 
girl.  Don't  tell  me  you  love  that  bloated  old  man.' 

"  'All  right,  I  won't,'  I  replied.  You  know,  Abe, 
a  girl  can't  quarrel  with  a  man  who's  tapping  his 
knee  with  enough  money  to  make  the  first  payment 
on  a  theatre. ' ' 

Volkman  whistles  again ;  his  eyes  are  eager. 

"  'I  know  Cranahan 's  kind,'  he  tells  me.  'How 
about  changing  him  for  a  real  man?' 

"And  with  that  he  tosses  the  package  of  money  in 
my  lap.  Well,  Abe,  you  know  I'm  not  a  street 
woman;  I  don't  suppose  I  could  call  myself  good, 
but  I'm  not  common." 

"You're  all  right,  Minta,"  says  the  manager. 
"Go  on." 

"I'll  cut  it  short,"  says  the  woman.  "I  told  him 
to  get  out.  After  all,  some  things  are  too  raw  even 
if  they  are  seasoned  with  a  hundred  thousand-dollar 
bills." 

"But  you've  left  Cranahan,"  protests  Abe. 

People  who  knew  Cranahan 's  girl  only  by  reputa- 
tion would  have  been  surprised  if  they  had  seen  the 
wave  of  color  that  made  her  rouge  seem  pale. 

"Let  me  finish,"  she  says.  "He  tells  me  what  he 
wants.  He  wants  me  to  pretend  that  I've  shaken 
Cranahan  and  taken  up  with  him.  It  sounds  crazy 
but  he  says  it's  worth  a  fortune  to  him.  He  says 
that  there  are  lots  of  big  men  dissatisfied  with 
Cranahan 's  financial  boss-ship.  All  they  need  ia  a 


134  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

leader;  they  can't  find  one  who's  game  enough  to 
tackle  the  old  man.  He,  this  Willoughby  man,  is 
game  enough.  He  wants  to  hit  Cranahan  in  his 
pride;  that  means  me.  Oh,  there's  a  lot  to  it  that  is 
too  long  to  tell. 

"That  night  Cranahan  calls.  I  tell  him  that  he's 
a  drunken  old  beast,  and  that  I'm  through  with  him. 
I  tell  him  that  I'm  in  love  with  Jim  Willoughby,  and 
order  him  out  of  the  house.  You  know  that  if  Crana- 
han hadn't  inherited  a  huge  banking  concern,  he'd 
never  have  built  one  for  himself.  He's  too  gabby. 
Next  day  all  his  friends  know  that  I've  thrown  him 
down  for  Jim  Willoughby.  By  the  day  after  that  a  lot 
of  his  friends  have  looked  Willoughby  up  and  have 
offered  him  the  backing  he  needs.  A  week  after  that 
and  Cranahan  goes  to  see  Jim.  Mind  you,  he  doesn't 
send  for  Jim,  he  goes  to  see  him.  They  come  to 
terms;  Jim  heads  the  amalgamation  of  the  motor 
car  industry,  and  gets  the  Cranahan  backing. ' ' 

Abe  Volkman  whistles  for  the  third  time. 
' '  Women  certainly  play  hell, ' '  he  declares  fervently. 
"But  I  ain't  sure  that  you  done  altogether  wisely 
in  completely  busting  with  Cranahan.  Why  didn't 
you  make  it  up  with  him?" 

Once  again  Cranahan 's  girl — let's  call  her  The 
Magnificent 's  girl  now — colors. 

"How  could  any  girl  look  at  Steve  Cranahan 
after  she'd  had  Jim  Willoughby?"  she  asks. 

"Nice  chap?"  inquires  Abe. 

The  bold  black  eyes  of  Minta  Haydon  flash.  "I'd 
like  to  kill  his  wife,"  she  says. 

1 '  Why  ?    Is  he  that  kind  ? ' '  asks  Abe. 

"No,"  she  cries.  "I  have  him,  but  part  of  him 
belongs  to  her.  And  I  want  him  all ! " 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  135 

Even  kept  women,  it  seems,  have  something  that 
functions  like  a  heart,  after  all.  Perhaps  the  face 
that  launched  a  thousand  ships  might  have  been 

content  with  one  canoe. 

***  ***** 

Let  us  tip-toe  from  the  room  where  Minta 
Haydon's  bosom  rises  as  she  thinks  of  The  Mag- 
nificent. Let  us  pause  outside  and  marvel  at  the 
achievements  of  the  man  who  now  is  keeping  her. 
He  has  beaten  Stephen  Cranahan;  he  is  a  power  in 
finance;  he  has  won  Cranahan 's  girl.  Let  our  en- 
vious hearts  thrill  at  his  success !  We  wonder  how 
Sam  Foyle,  reading  a  four-months'  old  New  York 
newspaper,  containing  paragraphs  of  praise  of 
Jameson  Briggs  Willoughby,  can  be  content  with 
his  own  lot. 

But  Foyle  is  but  human.  One  would  think  that, 
contrasting  his  own  position  as  super-cargo  of  an 
ocean  tramp  with  the  high  place  of  The  Magnificent, 
he  would  despise  himself  as  an  utter  failure.  A 
discredited  wanderer,  penniless,  without  even  an 

unfashionable  mistress Yet  his  smile,  as  he 

reads  of  Willoughby,  is  one  of  pleasure.  The  man 
must  lack  ambition;  let  us  turn  away  from  one 
guilty  of  the  unpardonable  American  sin.  He  has 
no  spirit ;  a  failure,  he  can  be  happy  in  the  success 
of  a  friend. 


CHAPTER  XHI 

"We  must  rid  ourselves  of  our  prejudices,  our 
narrow-mindedness,  our  intolerance.  It  is  all  very 
well  to  take  a  proper  pride  in  the  rigid  virtues  of 
the  founders  of  the  nation.  But,  after  all,  there  is  a 
difference  between  sin  and  relaxation.  As  a  matter 
of  cold  fact,  the  early  pioneers  had  no  opportunity 
for  relaxation  from  the  stern  labors  of  each  day. 
They  didn't  dance  or  go  to  the  theatre  for  the  simple 
reason,  in  the  one  case,  that  they  were  too  dog-tired 
from  plowing,  and  planting,  and  chopping  down 
forests  and  fighting  Indians ;  and  in  the  other  case, 
because  there  weren't  any  theatres  in  their  day. 

Honor  them  and  sing  their  praises;  but  try  to 
remember  that  the  country  has  changed.  If  the 
labors  of  the  day  have  not  exhausted  you,  it  is  your 
duty  to  add  to  your  culture.  Life  was  not  meant  to 
be  a  mere  routine  of  work.  All  work  and  no  play 
makes  Jack  a  dull  boy. 

Let's  quit  sneering  at  Europe.  Europe  has  been 
getting  along  fairly  well  for  a  thousand  years  or  so, 
and  we  only  show  our  own  bigoted  provincialism 
when  we  sneer  at  her  and  call  her  effete.  We  are  a 
great  nation,  not  a  scattered  collection  of  rude  vil- 
lages. Our  own  bigness  compels  us  to  view  things 
largely. 

Of  course,  a  lot  of  things  have  been  done  in  the 
past  three  or  four  decades  that  will  not  stand  the 
closest  sort  of  scrutiny.  But  why  be  so  petty- 

18T 


138  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

minded  as  to  scan  suspiciously  the  unimportant  de- 
tails? Look  at  the  results!  Look  at  the  railroads; 
look  at  the  great  combinations  in  industry  that  have 
cheapened  products  essential  to  our  daily  living. 
Suppose  that  somebody  did  make  an  extra  million 
because  he  formed  a  secret  alliance  with  a  political 
boss?  What  of  it?  If  you  get  right  down  to  cases, 
you'll  probably  discover  that  the  early  Pilgrims 
didn't  always  treat  the  Indians  exactly  as  the  Bible 
orders  one  to  treat  one's  brother.  But  look  at  what 
they  accomplished!  You  surely  aren't  going  to 
claim  that  their  occasional  peccadilloes  weren't 
justified  by  the  results.  You'll  find,  if  you  study 
history,  that  nation-builders  must  necessarily  be 
above  the  law.  Greatness  makes  its  own  laws. 

You'll  find  out,  if  you  study,  that  in  every  era 
there  have  been  lots  of  small-minded  people  ready 
and  anxious  to  condemn  the  strong  men  of  vision 
who  were  accomplishing  things.  But  they  haven't 
erected  any  monuments  to  these  carping  critics, 
haven't  even  named  a  single  street  after  them.  If  a 
man  can't  find  anything  better  to  do  with  his  time 
and  his  voice  than  to  spend  them  in  abuse  of  bigger 
men  than  himself  he's  a  pretty  poor  shoat.  Don't 
you  suppose  that  good  old  Daniel  Boone  ever 
bunped  off  an  Indian  when  his  own  life  was  not  in 
immediate  danger?  You'll  admit  that  Daniel  Boone 
did  a  lot  for  this  country,  won't  you? 

The  greatest  good  for  the  greatest  number :  that's 
the  way  to  look  at  it.  And  also  remember  that  you, 
with  your  clerk's  mind,  can't  expect  to  understand 
the  great  business  and  financial  geniuses  of  your 
day.  And  for  heaven's  sakes  don't  condemn  what 
you  can't  possibly  comprehend.  Don't  expect  per- 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  139 

fection  in  everyone;  take  a  look  at  yourself.  Con- 
sidering their  opportunities,  our  big  men  behave 
pretty  well.  Of  course  Mr.  Roosevelt  did  a  good 
work  when  he  exposed  all  the  wrongs  that  existed 
in  business  and  politics ;  and  Mr.  Hughes  did  a  fine 
job  of  housecleaning.  But  don't  run  away  with  the 
idea  that  everyone  of  our  big  men  is  rotten  simply 
because  we  find  an  occasional  scalawag.  Human 
nature  is  pretty  human  and  that  means  pretty 
decent. 

So  the  crisis  passes.  We  realize  that  growth  is 
not  always  smooth  and  symmetrical.  One  passes 
through  the  gawky  awkward  stage.  It's  the  same 
with  nations.  All  boys  have  pimples;  so  do  all 
boyish  nations. 

What  a  glorious  feeling  strong  maturity  brings. 
Look  at  our  children.  It's  true  that  some  of  them, 
like  the  Philippines,  have  been  adopted,  but  they'll 
soon  be  regular  members  of  the  family.  Let's  wish 
Mr.  Roosevelt  a  happy  hunting  trip,  where  he  can 
rid  himself  of  all  that  superabundant  energy,  and 
let's  draw  a  long  breath  of  relief.  You  can't  be 
always  sprinting;  Bill  Taft  certainly  is  a  restful 
sort  of  cuss.  He  won't  go  off  at  half-cock.  Let's 
get  to  work  again  and  quit  talking  scandal. 

Once  again  the  country  resumes  its  march  to 
prosperity.  Mr.  Bryan  has  been  well  whipped  for 
the  third  time,  and  anybody  who  says  that  the 
American  people  aren't  satisfied  with  their  leaders 
is  talking  through  his  hat.  We're  a  big  country, 
but  we  haven't  any  room  for  Populists,  or  Social- 
ists, or  Anarchists,  or  anything  else  like  them.  The 
nation  apparently  is  pretty  well  satisfied  with  its 
general  condition  in  this  year  of  1909. 


140  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

So  is  The  Magnificent.  Two  years  have  passed 
since  he  defied  Cranahan.  None  but  he  could  have 
conceived  so  bizarre  a  defiance,  could  so  clearly 
have  foreseen  its  effect.  Once  again  a  bluff  had  won 
for  him.  For  had  not  powerful  opponents  of  Crana- 
han been  impressed  by  his  outre  assault  upon  the 
over-lord  of  finance,  The  Magnificent  would  have 
sunk  in  the  deepest  depths  of  ruin.  For  all  his 
available  cash,  and  all  his  available  securities,  had 
been  pledged.  The  panic  had  caught  him  unpre- 
pared, and  only  by  a  desperate  gamble  could  he 
extricate  himself. 

He  would  never  gamble  again.  His  first  efforts 
would  be  to  amass  a  huge  cash  reserve  to  protect 
himself  against  any  future  emergency.  He  has  that 
cash  reserve  now.  But  it  is  not  likely  that 
emergency  will  ever  arise  again.  Cranahan  might 
never  have  been  able  to  have  achieved  his  great 
fortune  and  position  without  the  inheritance  that 
birth  brought  him.  But  he  knew  how  to  safeguard 
what  he  had.  When  any  man  seemed  able  to  com- 
bine powerful  elements  in  American  finance  against 
him,  Cranahan  took  that  man  to  his  bosom. 

He  had  so  taken  The  Magnificent.  Perhaps  he 
had  become  slightly  tired  of  Minta  Haydon.  Per- 
haps the  fact  that,  by  backing  The  Magnificent 's 
amalgamation  of  the  leading  motor  car  companies, 
Cranahan  had  made  an  almost  immediate  profit  of 
fourteen  million  dollars  assuaged  his  hurt  vanity. 
Certainly,  by  no  slightest  implication  did  he  ever 
refer,  in  conversation  with  The  Magnificent,  to  the 
defection  of  Minta.  Cranahan  was  close  to  seventy 
when  Willoughby  took  his  girl  away. 

Coming  up  town  from  the  Cranahan  offices,  where 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  141 

now  he  has  a  suite  of  rooms  all  his  own,  The  Mag- 
nificent finds  the  late  April  afternoon  almost  too 
warm.  He  is  riding  in  a  limousine  whose  windows 
are  opened.  There  are  freshly  cut  flowers  in  dainty 
vases.  Ash  receivers  and  electric  lighters  add  to 
the  comfort  of  the  car.  The  cushions  are  luxuri- 
ously soft.  Everything  tends  to  lull  the  busy  mind, 
comfort  the  tired  body. 

But  The  Magnificent  sits  stiffly  upright ;  his  cigar 
lacks  savor;  he  has  before  him  an  unpleasant  task, 
one  from  which  he  shrinks  in  apprehension.  As  his 
car  passes  Twenty-third  Street,  his  nervousness 
becomes  so  intense  that  it  can  be  soothed  only  by 
physical  exertion.  He  speaks  through  the  tube, 
ordering  his  chauffeur  to  deposit  him  at  the  next 
corner. 

He  hopes  that  by  walking  a  mile  or  so  he  may  be 
able  to  compose  his  mind,  to  regulate  his  thoughts. 
Instead,  he  finds  himself,  when  he  arrives  before  a 
house  just  off  the  Avenue,  in  the  middle  Forties, 
wet  with  perspiration,  more  nervous  than  when  he 
left  the  office.  He  resolves  to  ease  off  work;  he  is 
softer  than  he  imagined;  a  brisk  walk  of  a  mile, 
even  on  so  unseasonably  warm  a  day,  should  not 
reduce  him  to  this  state  of  limpness.  He  resolves 
to  take  up  golf  this  summer,  to  ride  and  swim. 
Perhaps  Ramsey  would  consent  to  forego  her  annual 
spring  trip  to  Paris  and  run  down  to  White  Sulphur 
for  a  few  weeks.  He  would  speak  to  her  about  it 
this  evening.  It  would  be  a  lot  of  fun. 

Then  he  forgets  Eamsey  as  he  presses  the  bell 
button  of  the  house  up  whose  steps  he  has  turned. 
A  French  maid,  prettily  capped  and  aproned,  ad- 
mits him  with  a  smile  of  welcome.  She  takes  his  hat 


142  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

and  light  overcoat,  and  informs  him  that  Madame  is 
expecting  him.  He  pauses  before  a  mirror  and 
smoothes  his  tie.  Then  he  shrugs  his  shoulders  and 
mounts  a  flight  of  stairs.  On  the  next  landing  he 
enters  the  room  where  Minta  Haydon,  behind  a  tea 
table,  is  awaiting  him. 

She  rises  and  approaches  him  swiftly.  Her  tread 
is  catlike,  and  the  sheer  silk  of  her  negligee  affords 
a  glimpse  of  the  gorgeous  lines  of  her  figure.  She 
puts  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  her  lips  press  his 
with  a  fervor  that  one  cannot  believe  is  inspired 
merely  by  the  money  and  gifts  which  he  has  lavished 
upon  her. 

She  releases  him  and  pouts.  His  kiss  has  been 
perfunctory  and  she  resents  it.  "You  haven't  been 
to  see  me  for  a  week,  and  now  you  kiss  me  as  though 
it  were  a  duty,"  she  accuses  him. 

He  forces  a  smile.    "I'm  tired,"  he  tells  her. 

She  is  all  a-flutter  in  a  second.  She  forces  him 
into  her  most  comfortable  chair,  presses  a  pillow 
behind  him,  arranges  a  foot-stool  and  brings  his  tea 
to  him.  Her  hands  continually  touch  his  face, 
smooth  his  scant  blonde  hair.  Minta  Haydon  may 
be  harsh  and  cold  and  mercenary  to  all  the  world 
outside,  but  to  The  Magnificent  she  is  soft. 

"There,  "she  says.    "Comfy?" 

He  smiles  wanly  and  makes  no  reply.  She  sits 
beside  him  and  pours  tea  for  herself.  She  re- 
proaches him  no  more  for  his  absence.  For  a  long 
time  she  says  nothing  at  all.  She  can  talk,  when 
she  wills,  as  few  women  can.  Minta  Haydon  could 
have  won  an  honest  success  in  the  theatre  had  she 
not  been  blinded  by  the  glamor  of  the  dishonest  way. 
Or  perhaps  she  could  not ;  the  very  lack  in  her  that 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  143 

made  her  willing  to  sell  herself  might  have  militated 
against  her  career.  But  if  she  has  sold  herself  to 
Willoughby,  she  has  also  given;  for  that  she  loves 
the  man  no  one  can  doubt,  who  sees  this  restless, 
feline  thing  achieving  a  quiet  repose  that  will  be 
soothing  to  her  man. 

Abruptly  Willoughby  breaks  the  long  silence.  * '  It 
must  end,  Minta,"  he  says. 

The  big  black  eyes  gleam,  a  shiver  runs  down  the 
sinuous  body.  She  knows  exactly  what  he  means 
and  does  not  profess  misunderstanding.  This  will- 
ingness to  meet  an  issue  is  one  of  her  attractions. 

"Why? "  she  asks. 

"It  isn't  fair  to  you,"  says  Willoughby. 

"Why  not?"  demands  the  woman.  Her  voice  is 
quiet,  but  her  eyes  are  flashing  now. 

Willoughby  looks  uneasily  away  from  her. 
"You're  making  a  great  success,  Minta.  The  whole 
country  acclaims  you  as  a  great  actress.  It's  a 
shame  that  there  should  be  any  scandal  about  you. ' ' 

' '  I  can  stand  it, ' '  she  says  quietly. 

"But  it's  not  fair.  You're  a  beautiful,  lovely 
woman,  and  there's  no  reason  on  earth  why  you 
shouldn't  marry  some  man,  some  fine  fellow,  who 
can  love  you  honestly,"  says  Willoughby  nervously. 

"Fine  fellows  don't  give  honest  love  to  harlots," 
she  replies. 

The  Magnificent  is  shocked.  He  rises,  spilling  tea 
as  he  does  so.  He  approaches  her  and  takes  her 
hand.  "You  mustn't  call  yourself  such  a  name." 

She  jerks  her  hand  from  his;  she  rises,  too,  and 
faces  him.  Her  glorious  bosom  rises  and  falls  be- 
fore the  tempest  of  her  emotion. 


144  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

"Why  not?  It's  what  I  am.  And  because  I  am 
what  I  am,  you're  leaving  me !"  she  cries. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  answers.  "I  respect  you  with  all 
my  heart. ' ' 

She  laughs  scornfully.  "Don't  lie  to  me,  Jim," 
she  says.  ' '  You  're  tired  of  me. ' ' 

"I'm  not,"  he  denies  her. 

She  turns  her  back  to  him  and  walks  the  full 
length  of  the  room  away.  Then  she  turns  and  slowly 
comes  back  to  him.  If  she  had  planned  to  re- 
captivate  him  by  an  exhibition  of  her  grace  of 
movement  and  beauty  of  form  she  could  have  been 
no  more  effective  than  in  this  unpremeditated  dis- 
play of  her  charms.  She  holds  out  her  arms;  the 
silken  sleeves  fall  away  and  expose  the  beautifully 
modelled  flesh  to  her  shoulders. 

"It's  been  two  years,  Jim,"  she  pleads.  Her 
hands  touch  his  cheeks  lightly  for  a  moment;  fleet- 
ing as  the  contact  is,  it  brings  the  blood  racing  to 
his  face.  She  laughs  merrily,  confidently.  She  feels 
her  effect  upon  him,  knows  that  if  she  is  not  mistress 
of  his  heart  she  is  mistress  of  his  body. 

"You  can't  give  me  up,  Jim,"  she  tells  him. 

His  pulses  pound  against  his  temples;  he  feels 
that  same  fever  that  always  rules  him  when  she  is 
near,  that  has  mastered  him  since  the  moment  when, 
dismissing  Cranahan,  Minta  Haydon  threw  her 
arms  about  his  neck,  and  said,  "Your  money  isn't 
enough;  I  want  you." 

Away  from  her,  she  has  no  hold  upon  him.  Not 
all  her  brilliance  of  intellect,  her  charm  of  manner, 
can  grip  his  mind  or  his  emotion.  Her  appeal,  for 
him  at  any  rate,  is  solely  of  the  body.  But  base  as 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  145 

that  appeal  is,  it  is  overpowering  when  she  is  close 
to  him. 

He  fights  against  it  now.    "I  must,"  he  tells  her. 

She  steps  back  from  him.    "Has  your  wife — " 

He  cuts  short  her  question  with  a  lifted  hand. 
"My  wife  doesn't  enter  into  this,  Minta.  She 
doesn't  know  anything  about  it." 

The  pupils  of  her  eyes  dilate.  "Then  why?"  she 
asks  again.  "You're  tired  of  me." 

"It's  wrong,"  he  declares. 

"Is  it  any  more  wrong  now  than  it  has  been  for 
two  years?"  she  challenges. 

"It  isn't  fair  to  you."  He  repeats  his  chivalrous 
assertion. 

She  laughs,  but  the  merriment  has  gone  from  her 
mirth.  '  *  Such  nobility ! ' '  she  cries.  '  *  Deserting  me 
because  of  a  sudden  rush  of  virtue  to  the  brain.  Not 
to  the  heart,  but  to  the  brain.  You  haven't  any 
heart." 

He  attempts  deprecation.  "Now,  be  reasonable, 
Minta,"  he  pleads.  "I'm  as  fond  of  you  as  ever, 
and  I'm  telling  the  simple  truth  when  I  tell  you 
that  it's  for  your  sake." 

She  stares  at  him  a  moment.  "You  think  that 
because  I'm  what  I  am,  I  haven't  any  feelings.  I 
suppose  you'll  be  offering  me  money  now." 

He  is  un-warned  by  her  words,  by  her  manner. 
' '  Of  course  I  intend  doing  the  right  thing,  Minta.  I 
brought  a  check  with  me.  It's  for  two  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand. ' ' 

"Let  me  see  it,"  she  asks. 

She  takes  it  from  his  extended  hand  and  looks  at 
it.  Her  hard  mouth  twists  in  an  unpleasant  sneer. 
Beauty  leaves  her.  Then  her  slim  strong  fingers 


146  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

fasten  on  the  bit  of  paper,  and  tear  it  into  tiny 
shreds. 

"Isn't  it  enough?"  he  asks  in  swift  dismay. 

For  answer  her  fingers  land  stingingly  upon  his 
cheek. 

"Get  out,"  she  orders. 

He  steps  back,  rubbing  the  red  mark  upon  his  face. 
"Why,  Minta!"  he  cries. 

"Get  out,"  she  says  again.  Then,  as  he  stands 
there  in  bewilderment,  she  turns  and  walks  falter  - 
ingly  to  a  couch  across  the  room.  She  hurls  herself 
upon  it  in  an  abandon  of  grief.  He  stands  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  looking  down  at  her.  He  has 
never  felt  more  miserable  in  his  life. 

"I'm  sorry,  Minta,"  he  tells  her,  "but  it  has  to 
end." 

Her  voice  comes  muffled  from  the  pillows  in  which 
her  face  is  buried. 

"Get  out,"  she  says  for  the  third  time. 

"Let  me  stay  long  enough  to  write  another 
check,"  he  asks. 

She  lifts  her  tear-stained  countenance  from  the 
couch. 

"My  God,  won't  you  let  me  save  my  soul!"  she 
cries. 

He  tip-toes  from  the  room.  Exactly  what  she 
means  he  doesn't  know.  Still,  it's  a  worthy  pride 
she  is  showing.  There  is  good  stuff  in  Minta 
Haydon  after  all.  He  will  send  her  another  check 
in  the  morning ;  she  '11  take  it  then. 

In  the  street  outside  his  nervousness  leaves  him. 
He's  been  a  fool — and  worse.  No  more  of  it!  He 
hasn't  appreciated  Ramsey,  but  from  now  on  .... 
He  wonders  if  perhaps  Kamsey  suspects;  he  prays 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  147 

that  she  doesn't.  Still,  if  Junior  knew  ....  He 
recalls  the  speech  that  he  heard  Junior,  home  from 
school  for  the  Easter  vacation,  making  to  a  boy 
friend. 

The  two  boys  were  looking  at  an  illustrated  news- 
paper. "That's  Minta  Haydon,"  said  Junior. 
"She's  my  father's  girl." 

That  was  last  evening;  The  Magnificent  did  not 
sle»p  all  night.  It  was  bad  enough  that  Junior 
knew ;  but  that  he  should  share  his  knowledge  with  a 

chum,  and  that  neither  should  be  shocked 

For  a  moment  a  question  flashes  in  The  Mag- 
nificent 's  mind :  whither  is  his  success  leading  him, 
and  where  would  it  take  his  sons? 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it?"  Kamsey,  a  trifle 
flushed,  breathless,  sinks  into  a  huge  chair  in  the 
library.  Her  bared  arms  lie  lazily  upon  the  wide 
arms  of  the  chair ;  her  blonde  head  leans  against  its 
wide  back;  her  silken  ankles  are  crossed  and  the 
jeweled  buckles  of  her  slippers  gleam  from  the  foot- 
stool on  which  they  rest.  But  for  an  expression  in 
the  violet  eyes  and  the  least  suggestion  of  heaviness 
in  the  hips,  she  might  be  twenty-seven  instead  of 
thirty-seven.  Yet  the  slight  exertion  of  showing 
Uncle  Frank  over  her  home  on  the  avenue  has 
apparently  exhausted  her.  Perhaps,  though,  it  is 
excitement  that  has  colored  her  cheeks  and  makes 
her  bosom  rise  and  fall.  After  all,  it  is  a  long  jour- 
ney from  the  Blake  home  in  Oldport  to  the  Wil- 
loughby  palace  in  New  York. 

Some  such  thought  enters  Uncle  Frank's  mind  as 
he  looks  from  the  face  of  his  hostess  to  the  counte- 
nance of  his  host.  Willoughby's  heavy  brows  are 
grayer  than  they  should  be,  Uncle  Frank  thinks,  at 
forty-four.  There  are  lines  about  his  deep-set  green 
eyes;  there  are  twin  creases  running  from  each 
nostril  to  the  corners  of  the  full  mouth  that,  despite 
its  fullness,  droops  at  those  corners.  The  thin,  bony 
chin  has  lost  the  flesh  that  softened  it  in  boyhood; 
it  is  aggressive  now.  His  figure  is  slim,  but  no 
longer  gives  the  impression  of  wiriness.  He  too  has 
dropped  into  a  chair  and  lies  there  relaxed,  as 

149 


150  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

though  worn  out  by  the  mere  demands  that  living 
makes. 

Uncle  Frank  has  been  impressed ;  he  has  not  been 
stingy  in  expressions  of  admiring  awe.  He  has 
exclaimed  over  the  electric  elevator,  the  sunken 
baths,  the  formal  dinner  service,  the  conservatory 
with  its  exotic  blooms,  the  ballroom,  the  paintings 
here  in  the  library.  Yet  now  he  recognizes  the  duties 
of  a  guest  and  performs  them.  He  is  not  like  most 
country  folk;  he  is  willing  to  be  impressed  and  not 
averse  to  showing  it. 

"Daggone  if  it  ain't  the  s~ellest  place  I  ever  seen 
or  heard  of, ' '  says  Uncle  Frank  magnificently.  ' '  It 
makes  me  feel  like  I'm  visiting  a  duke  and  his 
queen." 

"His  duchess,  you  mean,  Uncle  Frank,"  laughs 
Eamsey. 

" Queen,  I  said,  and  queen  I  mean,"  says  Uncle 
Frank.  "I'll  admit  that  Jim  is  only  a  duke,  but 
daggone  if  you  ain't  a  queen,  Ramsey." 

She  blows  him  a  kiss ;  Uncle  Frank  reaches  out  a 
fat  hand,  intercepts  the  caress  in  mid-air,  brings  it 
toward  his  lips,  then  shakes  his  head.  He  carefully 
places  the  kiss  in  an  inside  pocket  of  his  dinner 
jacket.  "I'm  going  to  save  it  until  I  get  time  to  sort 
of  linger  over  it,  Eamsey,"  he  declares. 

"Why  didn't  I  marry  you?"  cries  Eamsey. 

"It  ain't  too  late,"  says  Uncle  Frank. 

"Jim  might  not  like  it,"  suggests  Eamsey.  "If 
I  married  somebody  else,  divorcing  him,  it  might 
interfere  with  his  freedom." 

The  atmosphere  suddenly  becomes  electric ;  Uncle 
Frank  senses  the  invisible  lightnings.  He  swiftly 
changes  the  subject,  aware,  somehow,  that  there  is 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  151 

danger  ahead.  Yet  Ramsey's  tone  has  been  quiet, 
and  her  words,  though  cryptic,  have  been  innocuous 
enough. 

"  You  got  everything  in  the  world  that's  ever  been 
invented  to  make  people  comfortable,  except  one 
thing,"  says  Uncle  Frank. 

''What's  that?"  asks  The  Magnificent. 

"No  use  in  telling  you;  you  wouldn't  think  it  was 
necessary,"  says  Uncle  Frank. 

Ramsey  sits  upright.  '  *  Uncle  Frank ! ' '  Her  voice 
is  reproachful.  "I  thought  you'd  sworn  off." 

"You  ain't  got  the  least  idea  what  I'm  talking 
about,"  retorts  Uncle  Frank  defensively. 

Ramsey  sniffs  delicately.  "It's  bad  for  your  in- 
sides,  Uncle  Frank." 

"I'm  fifty-four  years  old,  and  I'm  able  enough 
yet  to  take  care  of  myself,"  boasts  Uncle  Frank. 
"I  guess  I  proved  there  wasn't  much  wrong  with 
my  appetite  at  dinner,  even  if  I  didn't  know  what 
half  the  things  was." 

Ramsey  sighs.  "You  haven't  been  a  bit  im- 
pressed with  all  our  grandeur,  Uncle  Frank.  If  you 
were,  you'd  try  to  control  yourself." 

"What  the  deuce  are  you  two  talking  about?" 
demands  The  Magnificent.  "Have  you  a  secret 
code  that  makes  your  words  mean  something  else?" 

"Only  husbands  practice  that  code,"  replies 
Ramsey,  a  bit  too  sweetly.  "Uncle  Frank  is  a 
bachelor,  and  I'm  merely  a  wife." 

Once  again  the  storm  clouds  gather  and  the  air  is 
heavy  with  electricity.  Uncle  Frank  again  disperses 
the  imminent  lightnings. 

"Well,  anyway,  you  ain't  got  what  I  need,"  says 
Uncle  Frank,  "so  I'll  just  suffer." 


152  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

"If  you  hadn't  shown  that  bit  of  self-denial,  of 
decent  restraint,  I'd  never  show  you  this,"  says 
Ramsey. 

She  rises  and  walks  across  the  room.  There  is, 
beside  a  desk,  a  wrapped-up  package.  From  the 
desk  she  takes  shears  and  severs  the  string.  She 
unfolds  the  paper;  she  puts  excelsior  in  a  waste- 
basket.  Then  she  holds  aloft  a  wide-mouthed, 
round-bellied  utensil,  made  of  china,  with  flowers 
and  birds  painted  on  its  squat  form. 

"The  symbol  of  American  democracy,"  she  cries. 
She  walks  toward  Uncle  Frank,  makes  a  low  obei- 
sance, and  places  the  gaudy  utensil  before  him. 
Uncle  Frank  rises ;  he  leans  over  and  kisses  Eamsey 
on  her  bowed  bead. 

"Nobody  but  a  great  lady,  daggone  it,  would  be 
so  thoughtful  of  her  guest,"  says  Uncle  Frank  with 
deep  emotion.  From  his  right-hand  trousers  pocket 
he  draws  forth  a  strong-smelling  oblong  of  navy 
twist.  He  bites  off  a  huge  chunk ;  he  sinks  back  into 
his  chair ;  his  jaws  move  up  and  down  and  sidewise. 
He  leans  forward  in  a  moment  and  with  deadly 
accuracy  hits  the  exact  center  of  the  cuspidor.  He 
leans  back  with  a  sigh  of  contentment. 

"Daggone  if  this  ain't  the  life,"  he  says.  "I've 
had  my  dreams,  same  as  everyone  else;  many's  the 
time,  when  I  was  a  boy,  I  saw  myself  swapping 
chaws  with  the  King  of  England,  and  now  it's  come 
true." 

The  Magnificent  laughs.  "The  King  of  England 
isn't  here,  Uncle  Frank,"  he  says. 

"You're  here,  and  you  could  buy  the  King  of 
England, ' '  exclaims  Uncle  Frank. 

"Not  quite  that,"  says  The  Magnificent.    But  he 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  153 

is  not  entirely  insensible  to  Uncle  Frank's  flattery. 
He  clips  the  end  of  a  cigar  and  lights  it  with  signs 
of  enjoyment.  "You  make  the  place  seem  homelike, 
Uncle  Frank,"  he  declares. 

"Advice  to  mismated  couples:  buy  a  cuspidor," 
says  Ramsey.  There  is  a  certain  acidity  in  her 
voice.  Yet  her  lips  form  a  reluctant  smile.  Uncle 
Frank  notes  it  and  has  less  fear  of  the  storm 
breaking. 

"Anyway,  I  never  dreamed  that  an  honest-to- 
goodness  queen  would  buy  me  such  a  nice  present, ' ' 
he  says.  '  *  Speaking  of  queens,  how  many  have  you 
met  ? ' '  He  looks  at  Ramsey. 

"Two,"  she  laughs. 

Uncle  Frank  looks  at  The  Magnificent.  "How 
many  kings  do  you  know,  Jim?" 

The  Magnificent  laughs.    "Only  one,"  he  replies. 

"Daggone,  it  sure  beats  all,"  says  Uncle  Frank. 
"Just  think  of  you  twenty  years  ago,  beginning  to 
make  Pinnacle,  and  look  at  you  to-day.  A  palace 
on  Fifth  Avenue  and  chumming  around  with  people 
like  Cranahan.  And  then  think  of  me  chewin'  to- 
bacco in  your  library,  as  easy  as  a  cat  lickin'  cream. 
Daggone  if  I  ain't  climbed  in  the  world  myself. 
First  thing  you  know  I'll  be  going  abroad  and 
chumming  round  with  foreign  dukes  and  lords  and 
the  like  of  them." 

The  Magnificent  laughs.  "Just  be  able  to  give 
them  a  tip  on  the  market  and  you  won't  find  it  dif- 
ficult to  make  the  grade." 

"I  guess  there  ain't  any  European  that  won't 
take  a  tip,  when  you  come  right  down  to  it,"  ob- 
serves Uncle  Frank.  "For  that  matter,  there  ain't 
hardly  any  American  that  won't.  Why,  twenty 


154  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

years  ago,  if  you  handed  an  American  workman  two 
bits,  he'd  belt  you  on  the  jaw.  Now  he  just  puts  it 
in  his  pocket  and  don't  even  say  thank  you." 

" Times  have  changed,  Uncle  Frank,"  says  The 
Magnificent. 

"So  have  the  people.  We  thought,  back  in  '76, 
that  we'd  licked  Europe.  "We're  just  finding  out 
that  Europe  is  licking  us.  Every  rotten  thing  they 
have  they  give  to  us.  There  ain't  any  spirit  in  the 
country  any  more." 

"Uncle  Frank,  you're  growing  old,"  says 
Earns  ey. 

Uncle  Frank  hits  the  bull's-eye  again;  he  eyes  his 
achievement  with  complacency.  "I  guess  I  am,"  he 
admits.  "Half  Oldport  is  dead,  and  the  rest  I  don't 
seem  to  know.  When  you  folks  going  to  visit  us 
again?"  he  asks  suddenly. 

"Why,  I  don't  know,"  replies  The  Magnificent. 

"Why  don't  you  come  home  this  summer?"  de- 
mands Uncle  Frank.  "There's  your  house  all  ready 
for  you ;  the  trees  was  beginning  to  leaf  when  I  left 
yesterday;  the  grass  is  green;  the  view  from  your 
front  lawn  is  more  beautiful  than  ever.  Why  don't 
you  come  home?" 

"I'd  like  to,"  says  Ramsey.  She  looks  at  her 
husband.  The  storm  clouds  that  have  been  gather- 
ing all  evening  seem  suddenly  dissipated  as  though 
the  sunshine  of  Oldport  has  dispelled  them. 

The  Magnificent  looks  eager.  "How  about  your 
trip  to  Paris?"  he  asks  Eamsey. 

"How  about  all  your  business?"  she  counters. 

"Paris  in  the  spring  ain't  a  patch  on  Oldport," 
says  Uncle  Frank,  who  has  never  seen  the  Bois  in 
blossom  time.  "And  why  should  a  man  with  all  Jim 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  155 

Willoughby's  money  be  bothered  with  business?" 

"So  that  I  won't  lose  my  money,"  says  Wil- 
loughby. 

"You  could  make  more  if  you  did  lose  it,"  asserts 
Uncle  Frank.  *  *  If  my  hotel  burned  down  to-morrow, 
and  the  insurance  companies  failed,  I  could  git  me  a 
job.  Probably  be  good  for  me  to  have  to  hustle. 
Wouldn't  do  you  no  harm  either,  Jim." 

"It's  all  a  question  of  Ramsey  and  Paris,"  says 
Willoughby.  Into  his  eyes  creeps  a  light  almost  of 
excitement ;  his  voice  quavers  the  least  bit. 

Eyes  and  voice  meet  with  response  from  his  wife. 
Something  glistens  on  her  lashes,  and  her  throat 
moves  as  she  swallows.  "I  can  give  up  Paris,"  she 
says. 

"I  can  give  up  business  for  a  while,"  declares  her 
husband. 

Ramsey  is  immediately  practical ;  the  mistress  of 
a  great  establishment  must  be  so.  "We  could  dis- 
pense with  most  of  the  servants  we  have  here.  I 
suppose  the  house  could  be  got  ready  in  a  week." 

"In  a  day,"  roars  Uncle  Frank.  "What  sort  of  a 
person  do  you  think  Amanda  Barrett  is?  You've 
been  away  two  years,  but  Amanda  has  looked  after 
the  place  like  she  expected  you  home  on  the  next 
train. ' ' 

In  his  excitement  he  half  misses  his  objective;  he 
remedies  his  carelessness  with  his  handkerchief, 
apologizing  profusely.  But  the  husband  and  wife 
neither  note  his  deed  nor  hear  his  apology.  Both  of 
them  are  breathing  a  little  more  rapidly  than  is 
their  wont.  They  have  eyes  only  for  each  other,  and 
ears  only  for  the  unspoken  speech  that  passes  be- 
tween them. 


156  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

Uncle  Frank  suddenly  feels  de  trop.  He  yawns 
gustily.  "  Wonder  if  you  folks  would  excuse  me  if 
I  trotted  along  to  bed,"  lie  says.  His  host  and 
hostess  suddenly  become  aware  again  of  his  exist- 
ence. Of  course  he  must  be  tired ;  not  merely  was  he 
on  the  train  all  last  night,  but  he's  been  rushing 
around  the  city  all  day.  Certainly  he  may  go  to  bed 
the  very  minute  that  he  feels  like  it.  This  is  the 
minute,  and  Uncle  Frank  is  escorted  by  them  both 
to  the  magnificent  chamber  overlooking  Central 
Park. 

In  the  hall  outside  his  room  his  host  and  hostess 
look  diffidently  at  each  other.  Constraint  comes 
upon  them.  Ramsey  turns  away.  "Good  night," 
she  says  over  her  shoulder. 

Her  husband  colors.  His  "good  night"  is  falter- 
ing. He  follows  her  along  the  hall  to  the  electric 
elevator.  He  presses  the  button  for  her,  and  when 
the  lift  arrives  he  enters  it  with  her.  On  the  floor 
below  he  still  lingers  by  her,  and  when,  at  the  door 
of  her  apartment,  she  holds  out  her  hand,  his  grip 
is  more  than  formal. 

"I'm  not  a  bit  tired,"  he  says. 

She  smiles,  and  the  drop  that  shines  in  her  eye 
seems  to  render  her  glance  more  warm.  "Neither 
am  I, ' '  she  tells  him. 

Never,  in  her  most  carefully  planned  gesture  of 
provocation,  has  Minta  Haydon  been  as  alluring  as 
Eamsey  is  now.  Minta  Haydon  would  catch  the 
fancy  of  any  man  in  the  first  moment;  Ramsey 
Willoughby  would  be  holding  him  securely  at  the 
end  of  an  hour.  It  is  the  tragedy  of  the  Ramseys 
that  they  must  maintain  their  grip  so  long,  after 
novelty  has  departed  from  allurement.  That  grip 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  157 

can  be  maintained  only  with  the  mind,  and  it  is  not 
every  man  who  appreciates  the  mind  of  a  woman. 
The  Magnificent  had  not  appreciated  the  mind  of 
Ramsey. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  he  appreciates  her  now. 
But  he  is  sick  to  death  of  Minta  Haydon,  and 
ashamed  of  the  hold  which  she  has  had  upon  him 
and  which  he  broke  only  last  week.  He  has  sud- 
denly and  newly  discovered  the  beauty  and  charm 
of  his  wife.  He  is  in  a  frame  of  mind  where  he  real- 
izes that  he  has  wasted  his  married  life.  Duty,  a 
week  ago,  made  him  break  with  Minta  Haydon.  But 
it  is  not  duty  that  makes  him  linger  now  at  his  wife 's 
door,  that  makes  him,  at  her  alluring  glance  of  invi- 
tation, cross  the  threshold. 

Barriers  have  been  unconsciously  builded  between 
them.  Matter  of  fact  acceptance  of  the  gifts  the 
gods  bestowed  has  been  followed  by  neglect ;  neglect 
has  aroused  the  pride  of  Ramsey.  Yet  suddenly,  as 
Willoughby  closes  the  door,  she  seems,  by  that  very 
action  of  his,  to  have  consented  to  her  own  sur- 
render. Neither  of  them  could  have  told,  eighteen 
years  ago,  why  they  had  both  yielded  to  the  emotion 
of  love  at  the  exact  moment  when  they  did.  Ram- 
sey only  knew  that  suddenly  she  had  been  in  his 
arms. 

Now  she  does  not  know  why,  after  years  of 
estrangement,  of  brooding  over  wrongs  done  to  her, 
she  has  forgotten  everything  except  the  craving  to 
be  once  more  within  the  vital  clasp  of  him.  Flushed, 
dishevelled,  her  blonde  hair  loosened  and  tumbling 
invitingly  over  her  lovely  shoulders,  she  releases 
herself  from  her  husband's  embrace.  Her  face  is 
crimson,  and  her  eyes  are  like  stars ;  stars  that  shine 


158  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

not  coldly  and  remotely,  but  through  the  warm  sil- 
ver of  unshed  tears. 

"Leave  me,  Jim,"  she  pleads. 

He  laughs  with  that  loud  masterfulness  that 
charmed  her  in  their  intimate  moments  years  ago. 

"You're  my  wife,"  he  tells  her,  "and  I'm  your 
husband. ' ' 

She  comes  close  to  him,  and  with  a  sigh  leans  in 
his  enfolding  arms.  "What  a  wonderful  summer 
we'll  have  at  Oldport.  Away  from  everyone  except 
the  boys." 

There  is  a  telephone  by  her  bed.  It  rings.  She 
extricates  herself  from  his  embrace  and  answers  it. 
"It's  for  you,  Jim."  Her  hand  slips  over  the  trans- 
mitter. "It's  Mr.  Cranahan." 

Willoughby  walks  to  the  'phone;  there  is  reluc- 
tance in  his  stride,  and  a  touch  of  impatience  in  his 
voice  as  he  speaks  to  his  partner,  the  over-lord  of 
finance.  But  as  he  listens  his  eyes  grow  eager.  Dis- 
jointed fragments  of  his  speech  reach,  through  a  fog 
of  emotion,  the  understanding  of  Eamsey.  She 
becomes  alarmed.  Her  husband  hangs  up  the 
receiver. 

"Cranahan  wants  me  to  leave  for  Mexico  in  the 
morning.  Oil  concessions,"  he  explains. 

"I  didn't  hear  you  tell  him  that  you  couldn't  go," 
says  Ramsey.  Her  voice  and  eyes  are  hurt. 

"It  means  millions,"  cries  Willoughby. 

"You  have  millions,"  she  retorts. 

"I  can't  refuse  Cranahan,"  he  argues. 

"You  just  said  that  I  am  your  wife;  you  can 
refuse  me,"  retorts  Eamsey. 

"I'll  only  be  gone  six  weeks ;  we  can  go  to  Oldport 
then,"  says  Willoughby. 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  159 

"I'm  sailing  for  Paris  on  Saturday;  I'll  be  gone 
four  months;  the  summer  will  be  over  then,"  says 
Ramsey. 

Willoughby  advances  toward  her;  she  halts  him 
with  a  glance. 

"Let's  not  discuss  it,  Jim.  You  made  your  de- 
cision years  ago;  I  should  have  known  that  it's  too 
late  for  you  to  rescind  it  now." 

"Be  reasonable,  Ramsey,"  he  begs. 

"I  want  the  luxury  of  being  unreasonable  for 
once,"  she  tells  him. 

"You  want  me  to  give  up  my  whole  career,"  he 
accuses.  "My  business — everything." 

"Including  your  women,"  she  jeers. 

He  reddens.    "What  do  you  mean?" 

"The  papers  say  to-day  that  Miss  Haydon  is 
going  to  call  her  new  theatre  'The  Magnificent'," 
she  says. 

Willoughby 's  flush  deepens.  He  knew,  of  course, 
that  on  second  thought  Minta  Haydon  would  accept 
his  second  check.  But  that  she  should  blazen  their 
ended  liaison  to  the  world,  was  more  than  he  had 
expected.  Minta  Haydon  had  her  sardonic  moments. 

"What  does  that  prove?"  he  demands. 

"Do  I  seem  the  vulgar  sort  of  woman  who 
demands  proof  of  what  I  know?"  asks  Ramsey. 

"Please  let's  not  quarrel,"  says  The  Magnificent. 

"Please  leave  my  room,"  says  Ramsey. 

"That  affair  is  all  over;  I'm  sick  to  death  with 
shame,  Ramsey,"  he  says  pleadingly. 

"What  broke  it  off?    Money?"    She  is  harsh. 

"It's  ended!  Why  isn't  that  enough?  You  didn't 
mind  it  a  minute  ago.  But  because  I  have  to  make  a 
trip  to  Mexico — " 


160  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

"That  isn't  it  at  all,"  she  cries. 

"Then  what  is  it?"  he  demands. 

"You  wouldn't  understand,"  she  tells  him. 
"Please  leave  the  room." 

"You'd  drive  any  man  crazy,"  he  affirms. 

"You'd  break  any  woman's  heart,"  she  rejoins. 

He  stamps  out  of  the  room.  Uncle  Frank  isn't  a 
very  permanent  Cupid,  after  all. 


CHAPTER  XV 

When  does  a  nation's  decadence  begin?  The 
answer  comes  pat  to  the  tongue  of  the  reader  of 
history :  when  its  citizenry  turn  away  from  the  pur- 
suit of  arms  and  engage  mercenaries  to  wage  their 
wars. 

But  the  answer  is  too  pat;  one  suspects  that  the 
very  obviousness  of  the  truth  renders  it  less  than 
true.  Is  it  not  possible  that  before  the  mercenaries 
were  engaged  decadence  had  already  arrived?  We 
have  a  better  answer:  when  honest  labor  begins  to 
be  considered  menial  and  degrading,  decay  is  evi- 
dencing its  symptoms. 

Consider  the  Pilgrims.  He  would  be  silly  indeed 
who  would  deny  that  they  were  a  very  hardy  group 
of  gentlemen  and  ladies;  the  Indian  of  their  day — 
and  he  was  a  very  discerning  person — preferred, 
when  he  engaged  in  battle  with  them,  to  have  the 
odds  considerably  in  his  favor.  A  tough  bunch  of 
tough  babies,  one  concludes  in  the  argot  of  the 
moment. 

From  them  is  descended  our  modern  aristocracy. 
Above  wealth  is  held  the  possession  of  a  few  drops 
of  Mayflower  blood.  A  sturdy  band  of  pioneers, 
they  laid  the  foundation  of  the  nation.  And  not  one 
of  them  had  a  servant ! 

Their  children,  and  grandchildren,  and  great- 
grandchildren, did  not  deem  it  beneath  them  to 
engage  in  such  homely  pursuits  as  making  fires, 

161 


162  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

smoothing  beds,  sweeping  floors,  cooking  meals, 
and,  one  is  forced  to  assume,  removing  the  ancestral 
garbage. 

When  a  family  became  over-blessed  with  girl 
children,  it  was  not  held  undignified  of  one  of  them 
to  turn  her  home  accomplishments  to  neighborly  use, 
nor  did  she  disdain  fifty  cents  in  payment  above  her 
board  and  lodging  for  a  week  of  assistance  in  the 
household  next  door.  It  was  possible,  even  highly 
probably,  that  she  would  wed  the  elder  son  and  chief 
heir  of  the  family  with  whom,  according  to  our 
modern  standards,  she  had  held  a  position  of  menial 
servitude.  Her  social  status  suffered  nothing  by 
her  willingness  to  do  honest  and  helpful  work  for  an 
honest,  though  tiny  wage.  ' '  Hired  help ' '  was  not  a 
phrase  that  branded  one  with  shame. 

Came  wealth  to  the  new  country.  And  with  wealth 
came  snobbery.  How  can  the  possession  of  wealth 
be  proved  save  by  ostentation?  When  all  the  neigh- 
bors' children  are  working,  it  is  ostentation  and 
proof  of  riches  to  engage  servants  to  do  the  tasks 
that  the  neighbors'  children  are  doing.  The  house- 
wife who  delegates  her  duties  to  a  hired  person 
advertises  her  husband's  success. 

Occasionally  an  American  went  abroad.  In 
Europe  he  saw  perfect  servants,  especially  in  Eng- 
land, where  the  climate  nourishes  a  magnificent 
servility.  The  best  statesmen  and  the  best  servants 
are  English  born.  Perhaps  the  same  cunning 
suavity  is  essential  to  both  careers. 

As  the  Roman  general  exhibited  proudly  his 
savage  captive,  so  the  Yankee  millionaire  exhibited 
his  English  butler,  his  French  chef.  America  en- 
thusiastically took  up  the  task  of  making  its  domes- 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  163 

tic  help  conform  to  the  European  standard.  Not  all 
could  afford  English  butlers  and  French  chefs. 
Moreover  the  country  was  still  young,  and  believed 
that  a  man's  strength  was  better  employed  in  out- 
door labor  than  in  performing  domestic  tasks.  It 
took  us  a  long  time  to  outgrow  these  vulgar  beliefs. 
So  we  combed  the  countries  of  Europe  for  women 
who  could  cook  our  meals  and  turn  us  into  a  nation 
of  dyspeptics.  The  Irish  colleen,  the  German  frau- 
lein,  the  maid  from  Scandinavia — these  usurped 
the  place  of  the  American  housewife.  And  their 
brothers  came  and  dug  the  sewers  and  builded  the 
roads  and  did  all  those  things  of  the  hand  which, 
done  by  the  Pilgrim  pioneer,  evoke  our  ardent 
admiration,  but  done  by  dirty  foreigners  arouse  in 
us  an  aristocratic  contempt. 

Susie  was  going  to  be  a  lady  and  Johnnie  was 
going  to  be  a  gentleman.  This  was  the  prayer,  the 
wish,  the  hope,  and  most  pitiably  laughable  of  all, 
the  expectation  of  the  American  parent.  And  a 
gentleman  and  lady  should  soil  their  hands  only  in 
sport,  never  in  honest  work.  God  help  us,  we 
thought  that  smooth  hands  and  a  white  collar  made 
for  breeding.  No  wonder,  with  all  the  youth  of  the 
country  avoiding  work,  we  became  a  race  of  sales- 
men. 

Over  night,  the  standard  of  living  changed.  For 
several  decades,  save  in  the  slave-owning  South,  the 
standard  of  living  of  the  rich  and  the  poor  had 
varied  but  slightly.  We  had  no  upper  class,  no 
lower,  and  none  in  between.  Honestly  bourgeois,  it 
took  our  European  servants  to  make  us  aware  of 
class  distinction.  Schools  at  which  the  rich  man's 
son  must  be  registered  an  hour  after  his  birth 


164  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

sprang  into  existence.  Seminaries  whose  sole  pur- 
pose was  to  veneer  red-handed  maidens  with  a 
cultural  polish  became  crowded  with  the  daughters 
of  the  wealthy.  It  was  necessary  for  us  to  look  like 
Englishmen  and  Englishwomen,  or  Frenchmen  and 
Frenchwomen,  in  order  that  our  imported  servants 
might  not  grow  homesick. 

It  was  the  pug  dog  period  of  American  life,  those 
eighties  and  nineties.  Let  us  thank  God  that  we 
have  outgrown  such  crude  barbarities  and  now  have 
a  genuine  aristocracy  that  has  known  what  a  coun- 
try club  is  like  for  a  generation  and  a  half.  Gone  is 
the  pug  dog ;  hail  the  Pekinese !  And  if  you  are  so 
crude  that  you  discover  little  essential  difference 
between  the  pug  and  the  Peke,  in  the  name  of  cul- 
ture hold  your  vulgar  peace. 

Let  us  turn  shudderingly  away  from  the  spectacle 
of  grandfather  packing  pork,  while  we  erect  a 
monument  to  grandfather's  grandfather  who  never 
packed  the  pork,  but  put  it  in  the  smokehouse  for 
home  consumption.  Time  will  make  country  gentle- 
men of  the  Pilgrims,  yet. 

And,  turning  away  from  the  vulgar  scene  of  the 
nineties,  our  eyes  light  quite  naturally  upon  the 
group  gathered  in  the  servants'  hall  of  the  Wil- 
loughby  mansion  on  Fifth  Avenue.  Now  that  we 
are  here,  let  us  use  our  ears,  also.  We  are  trying 
to  find  out  what  we  may  about  The  Magnificent; 
perhaps  his  servants  may  shed  light  upon  a  subject 
that  we  like  to  fancy  of  importance. 

It  is  good  to  enter  this  dining-hall.  The  world 
up-stairs  is  filled  with  argument,  albeit  unspoken, 
over  matters  of  place  and  precedence.  The  world 
up-stairs  has  doubts  as  to  its  own  security;  it  is 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  165 

eternally  invaded  by  rank  outsiders;  every  so  often 
the  failure  of  a  bank  reduced  an  aristocrat  from  his 
proud  position.  We  begin  to  have  a  faint  suspicion 
that  the  world  up-stairs  is  founded  solely  upon 
money,  and  that  birth  and  breeding  and  fine  tradi- 
tion have  nothing  to  do  with  that  world. 

But  down-stairs  there  is  no  striving.  Edward 
the  butler,  is  the  son  of  a  butler ;  he  was  born  to  the 
glamorous  social  prestige  which  is  his.  The  Mag- 
nificent may  fail  but  Edward  will  not  worry;  the 
world  is  crowded  with  servants'  halls;  in  one  of 
them  he  is  sure  to  find  his  place.  Comfortable, 
secure,  rotund,  red-faced,  he  is  the  picture  of  ease  as, 
with  a  word  of  apology  to  the  lady  at  the  head  of 
the  table,  he  leans  back  in  his  chair  and  crosses  his 
knees.  The  lady  at  the  head  of  the  table  smiles 
pleasantly  in  acceptance  of  his  apology. 

"  'Ave  another  glass  of  port,  Mr.  White,"  she 
says  cordially. 

Edward  the  butler  accepts  the  invitation.  He 
holds  the  newly  filled  glass  to  the  light  and  eyes 
rather  sternly  the  garnet  liquid. 

"Not  so  bad,"  he  says.  "Of  course  it  can't  be 
compared  with  what  we  used  to  'ave  from  the  cellar 
of  'Is  Grace  the  Duke  of  Rockingham.  But  I  will 
say  that  Mr.  Willoughby  does  very  well  by  himself, 
Mrs.  Woodason." 

The  house-keeper  nods  assent.  "Considering  'is 
lack  of  early  advantages,  'e  does  very  well,  'as  a 
nice  taste  in  things." 

Edward  raises  his  eyebrows.  "I  understand  that 
Mr.  Willoughby  came  of  a  quite  aristocratic  family." 

Mrs.  Woodason  laughs.  "  'E  was  a  mechanic  in 
'is  early  youth;  worked  with  'is  'ands." 


166  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

Edward  shakes  his  head  ponderously.  "Those 
things  don't  matter  like  they  used  to,  Mrs.  Wooda- 
son,"  he  states.  "  'Is  Grace  of  Rockingham  'as 
gone  in  for  trade.  Leastwise,  I  call  it  trade,  though 
some  call  it  invention.  Flying  machines  'e  's  trying 
to  make,  and  only  last  September  I  saw  'im  myself, 
in  a  suit  of  greasy  cotton,  in  the  shed  where  the 
machines  are  kept.  No,  I  wouldn't  say  that  'ad 
anything  to  do  with  Mr.  Willoughby's  rightful 
station. ' ' 

Mrs.  Woodason  defers  to  sober  judgment;  her 
mother  was  a  scullery  maid,  and  her  father  was  an 
under  gardener  on  the  estate  of  a  brewer;  she  does 
not  feel  qualified  to  debate  delicate  social  matters 
with  a  gentleman  whose  father  and  grandfather 
and  great-grandfather  have  all  been  gentlemen's 
gentlemen  in  the  family  of  His  Grace  the  Duke  of 
Rockingham. 

From  the  foot  of  the  table  Miss  Freda  Wyberg 
speaks.  She  is  a  pert,  pretty  little  blonde  Ger- 
man girl,  whose  functions  are  those  of  chamber- 
maid. 

"Tell  us  about  the  difference  between  English 
and  American  homes,  Mr.  White,"  she  says. 

Edward  lowers  his  glass  of  port  to  the  table;  he 
stares  rebukingly  at  Freda.  "The  chief  difference, 
as  I  'ave  observed  it,  is  that  there  is  no  understand- 
ing on  the  part  of  American  employers  of  the 
difference  between  a  chamber-maid  and  a  butler. 
In  a  properly  regulated  English  'ome,  the  'ouse- 
keeper  and  the  butler  and  possibly  one  or  two  other 
ladies  and  gentlemen  would  dine  by  themselves, 
where  their  conversation  would  not  be  interrupted 
by  common  servants." 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  167 

Little  Freda  colors  furiously.  "I  didn't  mean  to 
be  impertinent;  I  hope  I  know  my  place,"  she  says. 

"You  only  'ope  it;  you  don't  know  it,"  says 
Edward  severely. 

Mrs.  Woodason  archly  taps  Edward  upon  the 
wrist.  "You  'ave  such  a  witty  way  of  speaking, 
Mr.  White,"  she  declares.  "You'll  be  the  death  of 
me." 

Edward  expands  beneath  her  flattery.  "I  did 
'ave  quite  a  reputation  as  a  wit  at  'ome,"  he 
admits.  "But  usually  I  try  not  to  be  sharp."  He 
looks  forgivingly  at  Freda.  "It's  all  right,  my 
dear. ' ' 

Freda  restrains  her  imminent  tears.  Edward, 
having  proved  his  gentlemanly  worth,  turns  again 
to  the  house-keeper.  As  though  she,  instead  of 
Freda,  had  put  the  question,  he  answers  it.  One 
suspects  him  of  a  ready  and  willing  loquacity. 

"The  main  difference  between  English  and  Amer- 
ican 'omes  of  the  better  class  is  that  the  English 
'ome  is  a  'ome.  It  ain't  just  a  place  to  eat  and 
sleep ;  it 's  a  place  where  you  belong. ' ' 

"But  don't  you  think,"  suggests  the  house-keeper, 
"that  in  time  the  American  'ouse  will  be  a  'ome, 
too?" 

Edward  shakes  his  head.  "It  takes  centuries  to 
learn  'ow  to  live,"  he  declares.  "The  British  gen- 
tleman 'as  learned  'ow.  For  instance,  even  if  'is 
grandfather  didn't  'ave  no  money,  'e  was  able  to 
see  people  with  money,  and  watch  'ow  they  lived. 
'Is  son,  making  money,  knew  what  it  was  for:  to 
live  like  a  gentleman.  It  takes  time  for  that  sort  of 
thing.  Over  'ere,  they  'aven't  learned  what  to  do. 
They  try  to  imitate  us  at  the  same  time  that  they're 


168  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

trying  to  make  more  money.  They  don't  seem  to 
realize  that  being  a  gentleman  takes  as  much  time 
as  making  money." 

Mrs.  Woodason  interjects  a  question.  "Can't  a 
man  do  both?" 

Edward  considers  the  matter  judicially.  "  'E 
can,  but  most  frequently  'e  don't." 

Willets,  the  chauffeur,  English  by  birth,  asks  a 
question. 

"You  consider  Mr.  Willoughby  a  gentleman, 
don't  you?" 

Edward  frowns.  "I've  already  said  that  I  con- 
sidered 'im  such.  Back  'ome  people  would  know 
that  the  mere  fact  that  Edward  White  worked  for  a 
gentleman  was  sufficient  proof  that  the  gentleman 
was  a  gentleman.  I've  never  worked  for  gentlemen 
that  weren't  gentlemen." 

No  one  smiles  at  his  rather  involved  explanation ; 
one  is  forced  to  conclude  that  in  the  lexicon  of 
servantry  the  word  "gentleman"  is  susceptible  to 
various  shades  of  meaning. 

Edward  continues.  "As  I  was  saying,  an  English 
gentleman  usually  inherits  'is  father's,  or  'is 
uncle's,  or  'is  cousin's  'ouse.  It's  a  'ouse  that  'as 
been  lived  in  by  generations  of  the  same  family. 
When  'e  goes  into  it  'e  expects  to  die  there.  But 
over  'ere  people  live  in  a  'ouse  only  so  long  as  they 
can't  afford  a  better  one.  The  'ouse  never  becomes 
'ome." 

He  clears  his  throat,  reaches  for  his  glass  of  port, 
and  solemnly  drinks  it.  There  is  much  nodding  of 
heads  around  the  table ;  Edward  is  unquestionably  a 
prophet  not  without  honor. 

"You  make  things  so  clear,  Mr.  White,"  says 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  169 

Mrs.  Woodason.  "What  do  you  think  of  American 
ladies?" 

"I  'ope  that  I'm  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  think 
anything  but  nice  things  about  any  lady,"  replies 
Edward  gallantly.  "But  I  will  say  that  I've  seen 
the  finest  ladies  in  all  Europe  at  the  castle  of  'Is 
Grace.  When  the  late  queen  visited  us,  I  'ad  the 
opportunity  of  serving  her  and  her  entourage.  And 
I  want  to  say  that  among  them  all  I've  never  seen  a 
finer  lady  than  Mrs.  Willoughby." 

Somehow  we  begin  to  like  Edward;  his  claims  to 
discriminating  knowledge  seem  to  be  founded  on  no 
idle  boasts,  but  upon  solid  facts. 

Mrs.  Woodason  shakes  her  head  doubtfully. 
"I've  never  'ad  such  opportunities  as  you,  Mr. 
White,"  she  concedes.  "And  until  the  other  night 
I  would  'ave  agreed  with  you.  But  you  can't  tell 
me  that  any  real  lady  will  install  a — "  She  pauses ; 
she  coughs  delicately ;  she  even  colors  faintly.  Then 
boldly  she  resumes.  "I  never  'card  before  of  a  lady 
putting  a  spittoon  in  a  gentleman's  library,  or  car- 
rying it  to  'is  bed-room." 

Edward  waves  a  genial  hand.  "When  in  Eome  you 
do  as  the  Romans  do,  Mrs.  Woodason.  Our  own  be- 
loved king,  Hedward  the  Seventh,  once  drank  out  of 
a  finger  bowl  rather  than  embarrass  a  guest  who  'ad 
mistaken  the  finger  bowl  for  a  goblet.  I  consider  that 
providing  Mr.  Dabney  with  a — er — the  article  you 
mentioned,  is  a  perfect  proof  of  her  gentility. ' ' 

Mrs.  Woodason,  having  already,  on  various  occa- 
sions, yielded  to  Edward's  superior  social  authority, 
finds  it  difficult  to  contradict  him  now.  She  lets  the 
point  go  by  without  further  argument. 

1 '  Mr.  Willoughby  is  one  of  the  kindest  men  I  ever 


170  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

met,"  she  says.  "  'E's  always  thoughtful  and  con- 
siderate. 'Is  manners  are  as  fine  as  a  duke's." 

11  Finer,"  agrees  Edward  emphatically.  "  'Aving 
good  manners  don't  make  anyone  a  gentleman.  One 
'as  to  be  born  to  it.  Some  of  the  greatest  gentlemen 
in  England  act  like  hogs.  Mr.  Willoughby  is  a  gen- 
tleman, and  'as  good  manners,  too.  It's  a  pity  'im 
and  'is  wife  don't  get  along  better.  I  suppose  it's 
because  of  'is  carryings-on  though.  That's  another 
difference  between  English  and  American  people. 
An  English  lady  wouldn't  mind;  she'd  expect  it." 

Freda,  the  chamber-maid,  dares  rebuke.  "It's  his 
all  the  time  wanting  to  make  money,"  she  says. 

1  'Wouldn't  you  think  'e'd  be  content  with  all  'e 
'as?"  asks  Mrs.  Woodason.  "It's  miserly,  'carding 
it  up  the  way  'e  does. ' ' 

Edward  shakes  his  head.  "It  ain't  the  money, 
Mrs.  Woodason,"  he  explains.  "It's  the  fun  'e  'as 
in  making  it.  Look  at  the  way  'e  gives  it  away  to 
charity.  It's  'is  sport,  'is  pastime,  like  before  'e 
became  interested  in  inwention,  raising  pigs  was  to 
'Is  Grace." 

Mrs.  Woodason  nods  sagely.  "You  do  express 
things  so  remarkable  clear,  Mr.  White.  Tell  us, 
just  for  fun,  who  you  think  is  the  finest  American 
gentleman  you've  met." 

Edward  scratches  his  head;  he  drinks  another 
glass  of  port.  Solemnly  he  renders  his  decision. 
"Mr.  Dabney,"  he  announces. 

His  statement  is  received  as  though  he  had 
uttered  an  excruciatingly  humorous  remark;  laugh- 
ter shakes  the  chandelier.  It  is  necessary  for 
Willets  to  slap  Mrs.  Woodason  upon  the  back  before 
that  lady  can  regain  her  composure. 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  171 

"  You  're  'aving  us  on,  Mr.  White,"  she  finally 
manages  to  say. 

"Indeed  I'm  not,"  asserts  Edward  the  butler. 

"But  why  do  you  say  such  a  thing?"  demands 
Willets.  "  'E's  nothing  but  the  keeper  of  a  public- 
'ouse." 

"  'E's  a  great  gentleman  for  all  that,"  declares 
Edward.  '  *  The  day  'e  arrived  'e  met  me  in  the  'all. 
'E  put  out  'is  'and  and  shakes  mine. 

11  'You've  made  a  mistake,  sir,'  says  I.  'I'm  not 
a  gentleman;  I'm  the  butler.'  I  was  terribly  upset. 

"  'E  looks  at  me.  'The  'ell  you  say,'  says  'e.  'I 
ain't  a  gentleman  either;  I'm  just  a  man.  So  we 
can't  do  any  'arm  shaking  'ands.  Shake,'  says  'e; 
and  'e  grabs  my  'and  again. 

"Now  that's  what  I  call  putting  a  person  at  'is 
ease.  Naturally  I  was  frightfully  embarrassed, 
and  'e  knocks  the  embarrassment  right  out  of  me.  It 
takes  a  great  gentleman  to  cover  up  a  mistake  like 
that.  I  'aven't  felt  so  proud  since  'Is  Grace  slapped 
me  on  the  back  one  night  seven  years  ago ;  but  'Is 
Grace  unfortunately  'ad  been  drinking  'eavily  at  the 
moment,  so  it  wasn't  quite  the  same  thing." 

Mrs.  Woodason  sniffs.  "I  should  say  not.  'Is 
Grace  never  chewed  tobacco  in  'is  life." 

A  grin  shatters  the  solemn  immobility  of  Edward's 
face.  "Quite  true,  ma'am.  'Is  Grace  uses  snuff." 

Let  us  tip-toe  out  of  the  room  before  our  ideals 
are  shattered.  Uncle  Frank  Dabney  a  great  gentle- 
man? Yet  Edward  the  butler,  who  surely  ought  to 
know,  to  win  whose  golden  opinion  we  would  endure 
much,  so  declares.  Upon  our  word,  we  begin  to  feel 
a  real  warm  affection  for  Edward. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A  package,  about  a  foot  square  and  half  an  inch 
thick,  lies  upon  the  desk  of  the  city  editor  of  the 
New  York  Trumpet.  It  is  postmarked  from  Mom- 
basa, British  East  Africa.  Five  weeks  ago  the 
ex-president  of  the  United  States  landed  in  this 
remote  port  to  begin  his  hunting  trip  in  the  jungle. 
Already  civilization  has  lost  track  of  him.  Yet  any- 
thing, bearing  however  remotely  upon  his  activities, 
is  of  the  greatest  interest  to  the  people  of  the  world. 

The  city  editor  tears  open  the  package.  He  calls 
loudly  to  the  art  editor,  who  is  carefully  cleaning  a 
pipe  with  a  broom-straw. 

"Take  a  look  at  these,  Mack,"  cries  the  city 
editor. 

Mack  crosses  to  the  city  editor's  desk.  He  holds 
up  the  photographs  that  are  the  contents  of  the 
package  and  eyes  them  with  approval.  Mr.  Eoose- 
velt  is  seen  talking  with  guides ;  he  is  admiring  the 
huge  proportions  of  a  native  bearer;  he  is  seated 
with  his  son  upon  a  platform  erected  over  the  cow- 
catcher of  a  railroad  engine ;  beneath  his  white  pith 
helmet  his  glasses  shine  and  his  strong  teeth  gleam. 

"Where  from?"  asks  Mack. 

"In  the  morning's  mail;  not  from  any  of  the 
agencies,  though,"  replies  the  city  editor.  He  picks 
up  a  note  and  reads  it.  "From  a  man  named 
Foyle,"  he  says  slowly.  "Says  he  arranged  with  a 
native  photographer  for  these  pictures,  and  study 

173 


174  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

of  steamship  schedules  convinces  him  that  they  will 
arrive  at  least  three  days  before  any  of  the  photos 
of  the  regular  correspondents  arrive.  Says  he  had 
photographer  stay  up  all  night  developing  these  to 
catch  mail  boat.  Encloses  an  article. ' ' 

"Any  good?"  asks  Mack. 

The  city  editor  runs  his  eye  down  the  first  page  of 
the  typewritten  manuscript.  He  begins  the  second 
page;  then  he  turns  back  to  the  opening  lines.  A 
chuckle  comes  from  the  parted  lips.  "The  boy  can 
write,"  he  announces.  "I'll  give  it  to  Williams  of 
the  Sunday.  Get  busy  with  those  pictures,  Mack; 
we'll  beat  the  town." 

Let  us  leave  the  Trumpet's  city  room,  where  we 
have  seen  the  first  dawning  recognition  of  news  and 
literary  talent,  and  look  upon  the  established  corre- 
spondent. We  find  him  emerging  from  a  building 
on  the  Rue  St.  Honore.  It  is  not  a  particularly 
impressive  building  from  which  he  comes,  but  one 
can  understand  that  comfort  exists  in  the  rooms 
above  the  pretty  milliner's  shop.  Indeed  one  could 
understand  a  willingness  to  dispense  with  comfort 
for  the  sake  of  the  smile  which  the  pretty  milliner 
flashes,  through  the  opened  door  of  her  establish- 
ment, to  the  lodger  from  up-stairs. 

The  correspondent  sweeps  his  Homburg  hat  from 
his  head  with  a  gay  gesture;  he  does  not  seem  to 
mind  the  shrill  mirth  of  the  milliner's  work-girls, 
nor  even  the  laughter  of  the  charming  proprietress 
herself,  as  he  stumblingly  utters,  in  dreadful  French, 
a  salutation. 

He  walks  half  a  block  to  the  Rue  de  Castiglione ; 
he  stops  at  a  florist's.  The  buxom  proprietress 
beams  upon  him. 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  175 

"Bo'  jour,  Monsieur  Foyle,"  she  cries.  With  her 
own  fat  fingers  she  places  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole. 
She  implores  him  to  view  himself  in  the  mirror; 
surely  nowhere  in  all  of  Paris  is  there  so  fetching  a 
boutonniere;  and  absolutely  nowhere  in  all  of 
France  is  there  a  cavalier  of  such  distinction.  But, 
ah,  nowhere  in  all  the  world  is  there  so  beautiful 
and  gracious  and  charming  a  vendor  of  nosegays. 
Thus  our  correspondent  returns  flattery  for  flattery. 
In  Paris  one  tries  to  be  Parisian. 

From  the  flower  shop  he  proceeds  to  the  Lotti. 
The  concierge  meets  him  with  a  bow  and  a  smile. 
Monsieur  Lotti  himself  escorts  the  late  breakfaster 
to  the  restaurant,  exchanging  pleasantries,  and  with 
exquisite  tact  making  no  effort  to  hide  his  mirth  at 
Monsieur  Foyle 's  amazing  French.  The  maitre  d'- 
hotel  almost  rushes  from  the  rear  of  the  room, 
where  he  is  holding  an  animated  conversation  with 
three  waiters  and  an  omnibus,  to  aid  the  proprietor 
in  selecting  a  seat  and  table  for  the  guest.  Francois 
and  Simon  and  Pierre  almost  come  to  blows  for  the 
privilege  of  serving  the  gentleman.  It  is  decided  by 
the  judicial  Monsieur  Lotti  that  all  three  may  share 
the  duty. 

The  proprietor,  with  injunctions  that  the  Lotti 
chef  must  out-do  himself  this  morning,  leaves  the 
room.  Francois  and  Simon  and  Pierre,  after  dis- 
pensing certain  vital  news  items  concerning  the 
wellbeing  of  the  grandmother  of  Francois,  the  wife 
of  Simon  and  the  daughter  of  Pierre,  which  matters 
are  heard  by  Foyle  with  grave  or  merry  attention 
as  is  most  fitting  to  each  case,  remove  themselves  to 
a  decent  distance.  Monsieur  Foyle  devotes  himself 
to  his  morning  Times,  Mail,  Herald  and  Manchester 


176  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

Guardian.  Also,  be  it  noted,  he  does  ample  justice 
to  the  Spanish  melon,  the  chocolate,  the  omelet  and 
the  rolls. 

While  he  disposes  of  breakfast  and  the  newspa- 
pers' grist  of  gossip,  we  are  afforded  an  opportunity 
to  study  him.  He  is  not  the  boy  of  twenty-five  who 
married  Jennie  Smollen;  nor  is  he  the  older  youth 
who  was  struck  down  by  a  Spanish  bullet ;  nor  yet  is 
he  the  mature  man  who  first  threatened  to  take 
Ramsey  Willoughby  and  later  refused  her. 

His  hair,  in  this  summer  of  1910,  is  as  black  as  it 
was  on  the  day,  twenty  years  ago,  when  he  settled 
the  strike  of  the  Pinnacle  workmen.  His  gangling 
figure  is  as  slim  as  it  was  then ;  his  smile  is  as  ready. 
There  are  few  lines  in  the  big  face.  The  gray  eyes 
are  still  keen,  and  their  twinkle  has  not  left  them; 
they  still  seem  to  behold  something  humorous  whose 
sight  is  denied  to  the  rest  of  us.  But  back  of  that 
twinkle  is  an  indefinable  sadness  as  though  the 
things  that  are  humorous  are  also  pitiful.  His  broad 
mouth,  too,  that  smiles  so  easily,  has,  in  repose,  the 
faintest  droop  at  the  corners ;  among  the  few  lines  in 
his  face  are  two  that  run  from  those  corners  to  the 
nostrils.  Somehow  or  other,  he  seems  even  more 
gentle  of  nature  than  he  was  a  decade  or  two  decades 
ago.  Perhaps  he  looks  wiser,  as  though  he  had  suf- 
fered and  from  suffering  had  learned. 

He  finishes  breakfast  and  newspapers  at  the  same 
time.  Now,  perhaps,  we  shall  see  why  the  waiters 
seem  so  fond  of  him.  It  is  true  that  he  only  paid 
fifty  centimes  for  the  flower;  certainly  no  lavish 
extravagance  of  his  called  forth  the  attentions  of 
the  buxom  seller  of  boutonnieres.  But  a  French 
waiter  looks  upon  a  patron,  especially  if  that  patron 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  177 

be  an  American,  as  a  flowing  fount  of  gold.  Nothing 
but  the  distribution  of  great  largesse  could  account 
for  the  florid  welcome  given  him  by  the  porter  at  the 
door,  by  the  hotel  owner,  and  by  Francois  and  Simon 
and  Pierre.  Have  we  not  read  the  writings  of 
travelers  ? 

So  we  watch  him  as  he  adds  up  his  bill.  It  comes 
to  four  francs,  fifty  centimes,  and  from  his  pocket 
Foyle  produces  a  five  franc  piece.  That  is  all ;  and 
yet  Simon  who  is  technically  his  waiter,  accepts  the 
equivalent  of  ten  American  cents  with  loud  protesta- 
tions of  gratitude.  Francois  and  Pierre  are  as 
vociferous  in  their  farewells  as  they  were  in  their 
greetings.  There  is  something  behind  this  which  we 
do  not  understand.  If  we  hark  back  we  shall  recall 
that  we  have  been  puzzled  once  or  twice  before  by 
this  same  Sam  Foyle. 

He  chats  a  moment  with  the  clerk  at  the  desk  out- 
side ;  he  exchanges  badinage  with  the  concierge.  He 
seems  as  greatly  amused  at  his  own  clumsy  French 
as  they  do.  At  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  he  is 
saluted  by  a  gendarme.  He  returns  the  salutation 
gayly,  and  continues  his  leisurely  stroll.  Coming  to 
the  Rue  Royale  he  turns  to  the  right;  a  short  way 
down  the  street  he  crosses  it,  and  threads  his  way 
through  tables  upon  the  sidewalk,  passing  through 
the  portals  of  Maxim's. 

Shall  we  leave  him  in  this  notorious  haunt  of  sin, 
the  most  famous — in  deference  to  the  prejudices  of 
the  day  we  are  willing  to  call  it  infamous — bar  in 
Europe?  Or  shall  we  with  a  highly  moral  curiosity 
follow  him  through  the  doors?  Surely,  if  we 
are  pure,  the  sights  we  may  behold  will  do  us  no 
harm. 


178  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

A  little  delayed  then  by  our  scruples,  we  arrive 
before  the  bar  at  the  left  of  the  entrance  too  late  to 
hear  his  opening  remarks  or  the  words  addressed  to 
him.  But  we  find  him  with  a  glass  in  his  hand ; 
worse ;  its  rim  is  touching  his  lips ;  his  rather  promi- 
nent Adam's  apple  is  moving;  he  is  swallowing  his 
morning  cocktail.  He  sets  down  his  glass,  leans 
back  in  the  settee  along  the  wall  and  fills  and  lights 
a  pipe. 

On  either  side  of  him  are  two  alert  young  men. 
Grouped  about  a  marble-topped  table  before  him 
are  three  other  equally  alert  youths.  They  repre- 
sent the  leaders  of  the  New  York  newspapers  and  of 
the  American  press  associations. 

"What's  new?"  asks  Foyle  of  the  group  at  large. 
"I  haven't  been  to  the  Trumpet  office  yet." 

"Now  that  Teddy's  home  again  Europe  has  set- 
tled down  to  peaceful  ways,"  says  one  of  the  young 
men.  '  *  I  guess  the  Willoughby  yarn  is  the  only  one 
worth  while." 

Foyle  leans  forward.    "Jim  Willoughby?" 

"The  Magnificent  himself,"  says  the  other  man. 

Foyle  has  only  returned  last  night  from  a  fort- 
night's trip  to  Spain,  gathering  material  for  a  series 
of  Sunday  stories.  He  is  not  up  to  date,  and  asks 
for  information. 

"You  knew  that  his  wife  was  over  here,  didn't 
you?"  demands  the  spokesman  of  the  others. 

Foyle  shakes  his  head.  "I  thought  she  was  in 
Scotland." 

"Sort  of  mysterious,"  says  the  other.  "All  of  us 
got  the  tip  when  The  Magnificent  sailed  last  week. 
It  was  in  the  French  and  English  papers." 

"I've  been  sifting  the  sin  from  the  sun  in  Seville, 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  179 

and  finding  that  the  first  isn't  nearly  so  warm  as  the 
second,"  laughs  Foyle.  "What's  your  mystery, 
Tom?" 

Tom  Reynolds,  the  brilliant  representative  of  the 
Amalgamated  Press,  tersely  explains.  "  They've 
been  living  apart  for  about  a  year;  she's  been  mak- 
ing annual  visits  to  Paris  for  some  time ;  shopping 
trips;  came  over  last  spring  and  hasn't  been  home 
since.  Riley,  of  Gambodin  and  Eiley,  the  interna- 
tional lawyers,  made  a  trip  to  New  York  last  month. 
There's  a  rumor  that  she  is  going  to  sue  Willoughby 
for  divorce  in  the  French  courts,  and  that  Eiley  rep- 
resents her,  and  went  over  to  settle  terms  with  The 
Magnificent.  Now  Willoughby  has  raced  over  here, 
she's  back  from  Scotland,  and  there  is,  or  there 
isn't,  as  juicy  a  little  domestic  story  for  the  headline 
writers  as  we've  seen  in  some  time." 

"There  isn't,"  says  Foyle  quietly. 

Manners,  who  represents  a  great  New  York 
daily,  eyes  Foyle.  "Your  fact  or  your  fancy?"  he 
asks. 

"My  fancy,"  admits  Foyle,  "but  I'll  make  it  fact 
in  half  an  hour." 

Bellows,  a  trifle  older  than  the  rest,  flicks  ashes 
from  his  cigarette.  "I  suppose,  with  that  winning 
way  of  yours,  you'll  just  go  over  to  the  Meurice, 
send  up  your  card,  be  received,  and  get  the  whole 
story  in  five  minutes." 

"Unless  they've  both  changed  so  that  they've 
completely  forgotten  old  friends,  that's  about  the 
way  it  will  happen,"  laughs  Foyle. 

Sedley  of  the  Crier  speaks.  "I  hope  to  gosh 
you're  right,  Foyle,"  he  declares,  "but  I  didn't 
know  that  you  traveled  in  such  exclusive  circles." 


180  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

"I  don't,"  replies  Foyle.  "But  I  knew  them 
years  ago." 

Sedley  is  about  thirty-five ;  he  is  the  dandy  of  the 
corps  of  correspondents;  many  persons  would  be 
deceived  by  his  meticulous  dress  into  thinking  that 
his  thoughts  never  rose  higher  than  his  carefully 
tied  cravat.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  is  perhaps  one 
of  the  ablest  newspaper  men  in  the  world.  His 
memory  is  remarkable.  A  sudden  light  gleams  in 
his  eyes  now. 

"The  Magnificent  comes  from  a  New  England 
town — Oldport,  isn't  it?"  he  asks. 

Foyle  nods.    "My  town,"  he  says. 

Into  Sedley 's  brown  eyes  come  a  far  away  look. 
He  is  putting  the  names  of  Foyle  and  Foyle 's  home 
town  together.  They  evoke  articles  that  appeared 
in  the  Boston  papers  some  years  ago.  Sedley  nods 
shrewdly. 

"Oh  yes,  I  remember,"  he  says.  Sedley  is  a  bit 
too  shrewd  to  be  popular  with  his  fellows,  despite 
his  great  ability. 

Foyle  smiles.  "Yes,  I  was  mayor  for  awhile. 
Impeachment  proceedings  were  started  against  me, 
and  I  resigned.  The  papers  all  said  that  I  quit 
under  fire. ' ' 

"Who  the  hell  believes  the  papers?"  demands 
young  Reynolds  hotly. 

In  the  laugh  that  follows,  Foyle  arises,  places  his 
Homburg  hat  upon  his  thatch  of  black  hair,  places  a 
coin  for  the  garcon  upon  the  table  before  him,  and 
says,  "I'll  be  back  at  the  usual  hour,  five,  and  tell 
you  all  what  I  find  out." 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  181 

No  one  has  anything  else  to  say.  They  know  that 
Foyle,  according  to  usual  newspaper  custom,  will 
attend  to  this  branch  of  the  day's  labors  for  all  of 
them.  In  return  they  will  give  him  information 
concerning  other  matters. 

There  is  a  silence  after  he  leaves,  finally  broken 
by  young  Eeynolds.  "Sedley,"  he  says,  "I  should 
think  that  a  man  as  clever  as  you  are  would  know 
better  than  to  insult  a  man  about  ten  times  as  fine  as 
you  can  ever  hope  to  be." 

"What  the  deuce  are  you  talking  about?"  de- 
mands Sedley.  "How  did  I  insult  him?  What  did 
I  say?" 

"It  isn't  what  you  say,"  interposes  Bellows. 
"It's  the  nasty  way  you  say  it,  Sedley." 

"My  God,  I  can't  help  remembering  things,  can 
I?"  objects  Sedley.  "And  that's  all  I  said:  that  I 
remembered  that  Oldport  was  Foyle 's  town." 

"You  ought  never  to  say  anything;  just  write  it," 
observes  Manners. 

It  seems  that  men  of  shrewd  ability  are  as  fond 
of  Sam  Foyle  as  waiters  and  flower  sellers  and  milli- 
ners. We  wonder  what  his  secret  method  of  attract- 
ing friendship  is.  Yet  as  we  watch  him  retracing 
his  way  along  the  Rue  de  Eivoli,  and  note  him 
exchanging  greetings  with  crossing-sweepers,  we 
decide  that  perhaps  there  is  no  secret.  So  open  a 
countenance  could  hardly  veil  a  secret.  Perhaps  it 
is  because  he  loves  everyone  that  everyone  loves 
him.  Of  course  this  is  a  trite  and  copy-book 
observation,  but  because  a  thing  is  trite  and  copy- 
book doesn't  absolutely  prove  its  utter  falsity. 

He  has  not  been  bragging,  either,  for  when  his 
card  is  sent  up  to  the  apartment  of  Mrs.  Eamsey 


182  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

Willoughby  both  she  and  her  husband  walk  down  the 
hall  to  the  ascenseur  to  greet  the  caller.  They  seem 
to  have  forgotten  that  they  were  in  the  midst  of  a 
situation  that  might  be  termed  tense  when  he  was 
announced. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

It  is  dark  in  the  hall,  and  once  they  are  in  her 
rooms  Ramsey  seizes  Foyle  by  the  hands  and  draws 
him  to  the  window  overlooking  the  Tuileries  Gar- 
dens. There,  in  the  shaft  of  sunlight,  she  stares  at 
him. 

"Sam  Foyle,  you're  just  homelier  than  ever,'* 
she  declares. 

"Ramsey  Willoughby,  you're  more  beautiful 
than  ever,"  asserts  Foyle. 

"For  that,  sir,  I  think  I  shall  kiss  you,"  she  says. 

"Why  think  about  it?  Why  not  do  it?"  asks 
Foyle. 

She  steps  forward;  she  lifts  her  cheek  to  him. 
He  shakes  his  head,  refusing  the  tempting  offer. 
"You  were  going  to  kiss  me,"  he  states. 

Her  head  turns  swiftly,  and  in  the  movement  her 
lips  brush  his.  Certainly  no  loverlike  caress ;  noth- 
ing to  evoke  a  blush;  yet,  as  she  retreats  from  him, 
the  color  floods  her  cheeks.  It  is  not  unbecoming, 
this  warm  flush.  It  lends  a  certain  virginal  air  to 
her,  this  readiness  to  color.  Indeed,  still,  but  for 
the  slight  thickness  of  her  hips  and  torso  which  we 
have  already  mentioned,  Ramsey  Willoughby  has 
preserved  the  youth  of  her  figure.  Her  face  in  this 
thirty-eighth  year  of  her  life  might  be  the  face  of  a 
woman  slightly  past  her  late  girlhood.  Although 
she  is  modern  enough  to  use  cosmetics,  she  hardly 
needs  them,  save  late  at  night,  during  those  hours 

183 


184  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

when  the  toll  that  nature  exacts  may  not  be  denied 
even  by  the  most  juvenile  of  matrons.  She  is  still 
a  woman  to  make  men  pause  and  stare. 

The  Magnificent  looks  on  smilingly.  "I  didn't 
know  that  you  two  were  chummy  enough  to  kiss," 
he  says. 

"I  keep  my  secrets  better  than  you  do,"  retorts 
Ramsey.  There  is  perhaps,  even  in  this  lovely 
nature,  a  tendency  to  wifely  tartness  of  expression. 
It  is  Willoughby 's  turn  to  color;  he  does  so. 

* '  You  're  looking  fine,  Jim, ' '  interposes  Foyle.  He 
senses  the  strain ;  it  is  atmospheric. 

"Feeling  fine,"  says  Willoughby.  " Smooth  trip 
over.  First  rest  I've  had  in  a  coon's  age." 

"That  so?"  asks  Foyle.  "I  had  an  idea  that  you 
millionaires  did  nothing  but  rest." 

The  Magnificent  eyes  him.  "If  we  weren't  look- 
ing after  our  millions  every  minute,  some  one  would 
be  taking  them  away  from  us. ' ' 

"Suppose  they  did?"  asks  Foyle. 

"Answer  that,  Jim,"  says  Ramsey.  "This  gen- 
tleman, according  to  the  card  which  he  sent  up  to 
us,  represents  the  New  York  Trumpet.  His  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  readers  would  be  delighted 
to  know  the  philosophy  of  life  of  Jameson  Briggs 
Willoughby.  If  any,"  she  adds,  a  bit  too  sweetly. 

"It  would  make  mighty  interesting  reading," 
admits  Foyle. 

The  Magnificent  laughs  uncertainly.  "I'll  get 
some  bright  young  man  to  write  it  out  for  me,  Sam. 
Then  I  '11  memorize  it,  and  tell  you  all  about  it.  What 
have  you  been  doing?  I've  seen  the  name  Foyle 
signed  to  articles  in  the  Trumpet  this  past  year,  but 
hanged  if  I  ever  dreamed  it  was  you." 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  185 

"So  have  I,"  says  Ramsey.  "And  if  you've  been 
in  Paris  all  these  months  without  coming  to  see  me, 
I  want  to  know  why. ' ' 

For  answer  Foyle  looks  at  her;  Ramsey  colors 
elightly  again.  Foyle 's  look  seems  to  tell  her  some- 
thing that  is  not  unpleasing  to  her.  He  has  not,  then, 
forgotten  a  certain  day  when  they  picnicked  on  the 
beach. 

"If  you'd  signed  your  first  name  as  well  as  your 
last,  we'd  have  known,"  says  Willoughby.  "I'd 
have  bragged  all  over  New  York  that  I  was  a  friend 
of  the  great  correspondent." 

"It's  vanity,"  says  Ramsey.  "How  could  there 
be  more  than  one  Foyle?" 

Foyle  laughs.  "It's  sheer  accident.  After  I  got 
my  present  job  I  signed  my  first  cables  with  my  last 
name  and  the  cable  editor  ran  them  without  change, 
even  to  the  signature.  That's  all." 

"But  how  did  you  happen  to  do  this?"  asks 
Willoughby. 

Foyle  shrugs  his  broad  shoulders.  The  suit  of 
English  tweeds  which  he  is  wearing  accentuates  the 
ungainliness  of  his  figure,  making  his  shoulders 
seem  even  broader  than  they  are. 

"I  didn't  come  here  to  be  interviewed;  I  came  to 
get  an  interview.  Are  you  two  silly  people  going  to 
be  divorced?" 

Ramsey  is  the  first  to  rally  from  the  sudden  shock 
of  the  question.  She  turns  to  her  husband. 

"Are  we,  Jim?"  she  asks. 

"It's  the  first  I've  heard  of  it,"  declares  The 
Magnificent.  There  is  something  more  than  mere 
disclaimer  in  his  tone.  If  he  were  anyone  other  than 
The  Magnificent  we  would  say  that  there  was  a  hint 


186  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

of  pleading  in  his  voice.  But  pleading  seems  so  for- 
eign to  such  a  person  that  we  hesitate  to  believe  in 
it.  Men  with  bony  jutting  chins,  hard  green  eyes 
beneath  bushy  brows,  strong  aggressive  noses,  and 
full  lipped  firm  mouths  are  not  the  pleading  sort. 
They  command;  they  do  not  ask:  they  take;  they 
do  not  give. 

But  Ramsey  doubtless  knows  her  husband  far  bet- 
ter than  we  can  ever  hope  to  know  him,  and  into  her 
violet  eyes  comes  a  light  of  triumph.  Perhaps  it  is 
not  exactly  that,  however,  for  the  violet  eyes  seem 
to  glisten ;  it  may  be  that  there  is  a  tear  behind  her 
triumph.  All  triumphs  are  partly  tears. 

Foyle  turns  to  her.  "May  I  state  that  Mrs. 
Willoughby  was  as  surprised  at  the  question  as  her 
husband?" 

"More  surprised,"  says  Eamsey. 

"How  did  such  a  silly  story  get  started?"  de- 
mands Willoughby. 

Foyle  lifts  his  irregular  eyebrows.  "All  I  know 
is  that  a  Paris  lawyer  is  supposed  to  represent 
Eamsey  and  that  he  took  a  flying  trip  to  New  York, 
supposedly  to  see  you,  and  that  you  immediately 
came  to  Europe — " 

"All  true,"  interrupts  The  Magnificent.  "Eam- 
sey was  dickering  for  a  house  in  Paris,  and  I  thought 
that  she  was  being  cheated.  It's  all  straightened 
out ;  the  papers  will  be  signed  this  afternoon. ' ' 

Foyle  heaves  a  sigh  of  relief.  "I  knew  that  you 
couldn't  be  that  foolish. ' '  His  speech  has  the  liberty 
of  an  old  friend. 

The  Magnificent  hastily  leaves  the  subject.  "Tell 
us  about  yourself,"  he  orders. 

"Nothing  much  to  tell,"  says  Foyle.    "It  seemed 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  187 

to  me  that  there  wasn't  much  left  in  Oldport.  Of 
course  I  still  had  friends;  I  could  make  a  living. 
But  what's  making  a  living?  A  friend  of  mine, 
skipper  of  an  ocean  tramp,  was  going  to  South 
Africa.  He  offered  me  a  job  as  supercargo.  I  took 
it.  After  we  left  Cape  Town  we  went  to  Australia. 
We  came  back  to  the  east  coast  of  Africa.  We 
touched  at  Mombasa  the  day  that  Roosevelt  arrived 
there.  I  happened  to  see  him,  and  it  occurred  to  me 
that  photographs  of  him  would  be  of  value.  I  had 
them  taken,  looked  up  steamship  schedules,  wrote  a 
little  article  and  sent  them  along  to  the  New  York 
Trumpet.  Not  knowing  whether  they  were  using  the 
stuff  or  not,  but  having  been  bitten  by  the  writing 
bug,  I  sent  them  some  more  stuff  from  Calcutta.  I 
gave  them  my  next  address,  which  was  Honkong. 
When  I  got  there  I  found  a  cable  waiting  for  me  of- 
fering me  a  job  as  assistant  in  the  Paris  office.  I  took 
it,  and  they  seem  to  be  liking  what  I  give  them." 

"I  should  think  they  would,"  cries  Willoughby. 
"You're  the  only  man  that  ever  got  humor  into  a 
cablegram.  When  you  get  back  to  New  York 
you'll  be  a  hero." 

"To  think  that  Oldport  should  have  produced  a 
great  journalist,"  says  Eamsey  admiringly. 

"It  has  produced  a  great  financier,"  says  Foyle. 

Eamsey  purses  her  lips.  "Financiers  grow  on 
every  bush. ' ' 

"There's  the  wife  for  you,"  says  The  Magnificent 
with  a  grimace  at  Foyle.  "If  I  were  the  corre- 
spondent she'd  sneer  at  journalism." 

"  'Sneer'  is  not  a  pretty  word,"  objects  Ramsey. 

"I  withdraw  it,"  says  The  Magnificent.  "Let  us 
say  'jeer'." 


188  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

"Even  that,"  says  Eamsey,  "doesn't  seem  to  be 
flattering. ' ' 

"Well,  how  about  ' fleer'?"  offers  The  Magnifi- 
cent. "It's  the  only  other  word  that  rhymes." 

Eamsey  eyes  him  judicially.  "I'd  have  to  look 
that  word  up  in  the  dictionary  before  I  could  accept 
it.  But  I  don't  think  it  really  expresses  me." 

A  trifling  bit  of  by-play,  of  no  particular  dramatic 
or  humorous  significance  to  us,  but  filled  with  mean- 
ing to  the  Willoughbys.  For  lightness  has  departed 
from  their  conversation  with  each  other  many  years 
ago.  Indeed  there  has  been  practically  no  conver- 
sation at  all  between  them  during  the  past  year. 
They  have  met  once  for  a  day  in  England  but  their 
talk  was  formal.  It  seems  as  though  the  presence 
of  Foyle  has  brought  something  to  the  relationship 
of  husband  and  wife  that  has  been  lacking. 

"Tell  me  about  Uncle  Frank,"  says  Foyle. 

Eamsey  laughs  joyously.  "On  his  last  birthday 
I  decided  to  buy  him  something  really  beautiful.  I 
searched  all  Paris  for  something  that  would  really 
please  him.  You  know  Uncle  Frank  likes  beautiful 
things,  for  all  he  may  seem  crude.  Well,  I  bought 
him  a  Grecian  vase;  its  lines  were  simply  divine. 
And  what  do  you  suppose  the  old  reprobate  wrote 
me?" 

"Give  it  up,"  says  Foyle. 

"He  said  it  was  the  handsomest  cuspidor  he'd 
ever  seen,"  says  Eamsey. 

Foyle  laughs.  "I'd  give  a  lot  to  see  him,"  he 
declares.  "If  I  can  ever  save  up  money  enough  to 
have  a  vacation  at  home,  I'm  going  to  spend  it  in 
The  Commercial  House." 

For  a  moment,  surprisingly,  it  seems  that  Earn- 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  189 

sey  is  going  to  burst  into  tears.  One  suspects  that 
the  pride  which  has  separated  her  from  her  husband 
has  not  conquered  her  homesickness.  But  she  is  a 
woman  of  the  world.  Her  poise  does  not  need  to  be 
restored;  it  restores  itself.  She  glances  at  an 
enamel  and  gold  clock  upon  a  desk. 

"My  hairdresser  will  be  here  in  one  minute,"  she 
announces.  "And  I  can't  put  her  off;  she's  as 
haughty  as  a  duchess,  and  fifty  times  as  important. 
You'll  have  to  go — both  of  you.  But  you'll  come 
back,  won't  you,  Sam?" 

The  Magnificent  looks  dazed.  "Am  I  invited, 
too?"  he  asks. 

Eamsey  looks  at  him ;  it  is  somewhat  over  a  year 
since  he  postponed  the  trip  to  Oldport  and  went  to 
Mexico  at  Cranahan's  behest.  Save  for  that  single 
formal  meeting  in  England,  these  two,  husband  and 
wife,  have  not  seen  each  other.  To-day  The  Mag- 
nificent, having  hastened  across  the  Atlantic  to 
persuade  his  wife  not  to  buy  a  residence  in  Paris, 
but  to  return  to  America,  has  yielded  to  her  cool 
aloofness,  and  has  agreed  to  the  purchase.  He 
knows  that  their  separation  will  be  final  once  Ram- 
sey is  installed  in  her  Paris  home.  He  loves  his 
wife;  he  always  has  loved  her;  he  always  will  love 
her;  yet  because  he  knows  he  has  not  played  the 
game,  he  has  yielded  to  her  wish  for  separation. 
Now  he  cannot  keep  from  his  voice  his  hurt.  To 
be  ignored  by  the  woman  who  has  become  in  her 
aloofness  more  precious  than  a  dozen  Minta  Hay- 
dons  is  too  much  for  his  pride.  His  heart  leaps  and 
his  cheeks  flush  as  she  replies, 

"Why,  I'm  getting  myself  beautified  for  you, 
Jim." 


190  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

The  Magnificent  cannot  trust  himself  to  reply. 
He  doesn't  know  what  has  happened  to  change  her 
attitude ;  neither  does  she.  Perhaps  the  sight  of  an 
old  friend  has  aroused  a  different  sort  of  pride  in 
her,  a  more  honest  pride  than  the  false  one  that  has 
made  her  refuse  to  forgive  a  man  who  has  not  un- 
derstood. For  it  is  not  the  sin  of  the  flesh  that 
Kamsey  has  found  it  hardest  to  condone;  it  is  the 
sin  of  the  heart.  And  Willoughby  has  sinned  against 
her  in  his  heart;  he  has  committed  the  gravest  sin 
that  husbands  may  commit:  the  sin  of  not  trying 
to  understand. 

During  their  conversation,  before  Foyle  came, 
The  Magnificent  has  let  no  hint  of  the  feelings  of 
his  heart  creep  into  his  speech.  He  has  argued  that 
separation  for  long  periods  is  bad  for  the  boys. 
This  has  merely  hardened  Eamsey  in  her  determi- 
nation to  acquire  the  Paris  residence.  For  the  boys 
are  away  at  school  practically  nine  months  a 
year  now.  She  does  not  want  them  to  live  in  New 
York,  and  Willoughby  will  live  nowhere  else. 
She  sees  the  boys  as  much  in  Europe  almost  as  she 
would  in  New  York.  In  fact  she  has  just  left 
them  in  Scotland  where  they  are  learning  golf  in  its 
home. 

But  now  something  has  come  into  The  Magnifi- 
cent's  voice  that  is  more  potent  than  any  mere 
words,  uttered  by  the  million,  could  be.  Her  lovely 
bosom  rises  and  falls  in  a  sudden  tumult,  in  re- 
sponse to  that  subtle  something. 

She  walks  to  the  door  with  her  husband  and 
Foyle.  She  makes  an  engagement  for  tea  in  the 
Bois.  It  is  to  be  followed  by  a  motor  ride  and  din- 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  191 

ner.     She  detains  her  husband  in  the  doorway  as 
Foyle  goes  on  ahead. 

"Perhaps  you'd  better  not  close  for  the  house 
to-day,  Jim,"  she  whispers. 

He  stares  incredulously  at  her. 

"And  you  might  buy  two  cabins  on  the  Lusitania 
for  next  week, ' '  she  suggests. 

His  heart  almost  stops  beating.  During  the  past 
year  since  he  broke  with  Minta  Haydon  there  has 
been  no  other  woman  in  his  life.  The  sight  of 
Ramsey  has  aroused  in  him  the  old  fever  for  pos- 
session that  made  him  plead  with  her  twenty  years 
ago  to  advance  the  date  of  their  marriage.  For  the 
hold  of  the  Minta  Haydons  may  be  broken,  but  the 
grip  of  the  Ramseys  endures. 

He  becomes  suddenly  bold.  "Why  not  one 
cabin?"  he  asks. 

She  has  blushed  before  this  morning,  but  now  the 
flame  surges  up  to  the  roots  of  her  still  fair  hair, 
into  which  no  trace  of  gray  has  crept. 

"Why  not?"  she  breathes. 

He  leans  toward  her.  "It  will  be  our  second 
honeymoon,  Ramsey, ' '  he  says  thickly. 

A  tOuch  of  that  odd  virginal  manner  of  hers,  a 
manner  that  blends  so  seductively  with  the  passion 
that  is  as  evident  in  her,  to  the  discerning,  as  it  is  in 
Minta  Haydon,  makes  her  draw  back. 

"You  mustn't  say  that,"  she  whispers. 

But  he  is  emboldened  now.  "Why  not?  It  will 
be,  won't  it?" 

"Well,  maybe,"  she  concedes.  Then  she  almost 
pushes  him  through  the  door.  She  runs  to  the  mir- 
ror in  her  bed-room.  Her  face  is  still  suffused  with 
color.  She  is  happy  for  the  first  time  since  the 


192  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

moment  when  Cranahan's  telephone  message  sent 
The  Magnificent  from  her  New  York  boudoir  to 
Mexico  and  herself  to  Europe. 

And  because  she  is  happy  she  gives  free  rein  to 
her  emotions.  Pride  has  kept  her  in  the  past  from 
weeping;  joy  conquers  pride  and  permits  her  tears. 
The  coiffeuse  has  to  wait  fifteen  minutes  before  she 
is  admitted  to  the  presence  of  Madame. 

Down-stairs  in  the  lobby  of  the  hotel,  Willoughby 
cannot  restrain  his  exultation.  He  puts  his  arm 
about  Foyle  's  shoulders. 

"It's  great  to  see  you,  old  man,"  he  declares. 
"What's  all  this  damn'  nonsense  about  saving  up 
for  a  vacation?  Don't  you  know  that  all  you  ever 
have  to  do  is  draw  a  draft  on  me  for  any  amount? 
I  said  any  amount  and  that's  what  I  mean." 

"That's  mighty  good  of  you,  Jim,"  replies  Foyle. 
"If  I  ever  need  it,  I'll  do  it." 

The  Magnificent  lights  a  cigar.  "I'm  not  going 
to  buy  that  house,  after  all.  Eamsey  just  said  I 
didn't  need  to." 

Foyle  grips  his  hand.  "She  is  worth  a  million 
other  women,  Jim." 

"I've  found  that  out,"  says  Willoughby/  The 
perfume  of  his  cigar  combines  with  Eamsey 's  sud- 
den surrender,  to  make  him  expansive. 

"I  made  a  damn'  fool  of  myself  over  a  woman, 
and  Ramsey  never  got  over  it  until  to-day.  Never 
again,"  he  says  fervently.  "I  mean  it,"  he  adds. 

"I  believe  you,"  says  Foyle.  "Then  that 
divorce — " 

"We  hadn't  got  that  far,  but  we  easily  might 
have.  I'll  give  you  a  bigger  story  than  that.  Crana- 
han  is  retiring  from  all  active  participation  in 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  193 

business.  I'm  taking  his  place.  You  can  quote 
me." 

Foyle  whistles.  "That's  a  real  bit  of  news.  Why, 
it's  a  whale  of  a  story.  My  goodness,  Jim,  that 
makes  you  the  most  powerful  financier  in  America." 

"And  if  America  doesn't  mean  the  world,  it 
damn'  soon  will,"  says  The  Magnificent. 

We  can  pardon  the  boast,  so  seldom  does  he  brag. 
And  we  are  rather  inclined  to  agree  with  him.  We 
share  his  patriotic  fervor. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

At  two  o'clock  the  following  morning  continued 
pounding  upon  the  door  of  his  room  awakens  Foyle. 
For  a  moment  he  lies  in  bed,  stupefied  with  sleep. 
And  before  his  mind  can  arrive  at  the  present  it 
must  traverse  the  immediate  past.  Tea  in  the  Bois ; 
a  motor  ride ;  dinner  at  the  Meurice.  Not  an  extra- 
ordinary series  of  events,  but  highly  exciting  to 
Foyle.  To  talk  over  old  times  with  The  Magnificent ; 
to  look  at  Ramsey  and  suffer  pains  whose  poignancy 
but  renders  them  more  pleasurable;  to  hear  her 
voice.  .  .  ,.  .To  him  she  is  as  desirable  now  as  she 
was  twenty  years  ago.  Moreover,  it  is  a  long  time 
since  Foyle  has  seen  old  friends,  and  even  ones  less 
dear  to  him — he  has  never  lost  his  boyhood  fond- 
ness for  Jim  Willoughby — would  make  a  day  mem- 
orable. 

Irritation  creeps  into  the  heart  of  the  person 
knocking  on  the  door.  He  becomes  dissatisfied  with 
the  effect  created  by  the  impact  of  his  knuckles 
against  unyielding  wood,  and  lifts  his  voice.  Foyle 
suddenly  sits  up,  crossing,  with  the  movement,  the 
border-line  between  dreams  and  realities.  He  swings 
his  long  legs  out  of  bed,  and  gropes  with  his  feet  for 
a  pair  of  slippers,  at  the  same  time  switching  on  the 
electric  light,  whose  bulb  is  in  such  close  proximity 
to  the  bed  that  we  believe  this  man  frequently  reads 
himself  to  sleep. 

He  runs  his  fingers  through  his  tangled  black  hair, 

195 


196  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

then  stretches  in  a  mighty  yawn.  He  cries  to  the 
person  in  the  hall  outside  to  contain  himself  in 
patience  for  another  moment.  A  grumbling  re- 
sponse comes  through  the  door.  Then  Foyle  opens 
it. 

Before  him  stands  a  messenger  from  the  cable 
office.  He  gives  Foyle  an  envelope,  and  accepts 
gratefully  a  ten  centime  tip.  He  understands  that 
the  latter  part  of  the  delay  was  due  to  Foyle 's 
searching  for  this  piece  of  money.  He  departs  in 
high  good  humor. 

Foyle  opens  the  envelope  and  reads  the  telegram. 
It  is  from  the  managing  editor  of  the  Trumpet,  and 
states  that  Cranahan  indignantly  denies  any  inten- 
tion of  retiring  from  business,  and  that  he  further 
declares  his  disbelief  that  "Willoughby  has  given  the 
interview  attributed  to  him.  The  'editor  orders 
Foyle  to  secure  an  immediate  affirmation  of  the 
interview. 

Before  switching  off  the  light  again  Foyle  sits  a 
moment  on  the  edge  of  his  bed  and  smokes  a  cigar- 
ette. He  has  been  correct  in  his  belief  that  the 
announcement  of  Cranahan 's  retirement  would  be  a 
big  story.  But  Cranahan 's  denial  makes  Willough- 
by's  statement  even  more  important.  Certainly  the 
managing  editor  must  have  been  greatly  stirred  to 
cable  Foyle  at  his  home  address  instead  of  merely 
at  the  office.  Unquestionably  a  duplicate  of  the 
cable  would  be  at  the  office  in  the  morning.  Well, 
he  could  hardly  rout  The  Magnificent  out  of  bed  at 
this  hour  of  the  night.  So  he  quenches  his  cigarette 
and  goes  back  to  sleep. 

He  breakfasts  at  the  usual  hour,  wearing  his  usual 
boutonniere,  his  patronage  fought  for  in  the  usual 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  197 

manner  by  Francois  and  Simon  and  Pierre.  He 
exchanges  the  customary  pleasantries  with  the  con- 
cierge at  the  Lotti,  with  the  gendarme  regulating 
the  traffic  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  Eivoli  and  the 
Rue  Royale,  and  with  the  porter  at  the  door  of 
Maxim's.  The  memory  of  the  cablegram  received 
last  night  seems  not  to  disturb  him. 

But  once  within  the  portals  of  the  restaurant,  his 
manner  of  easy  unconcern  leaves  him.  Perhaps  he 
is  more  sensitive  than  most  people.  At  any  rate  he 
is  immediately  conscious,  as  he  crosses  to  the  bar,  of 
chilliness  in  the  atmosphere.  Sedley,  immaculate  to 
a  dandified  degree,  is  the  first  to  speak. 

"A  fine  bunch  of  goats  you've  made  of  all  of  us," 
he  says  viciously. 

Foyle  removes  his  Homburg  hat  and  wipes  his 
forehead  with  his  handkerchief.  The  morning  is 
almost  oppressively  warm.  He  nods  to  the  bar- 
tender who  immediately  starts  the  composition  of 
the  morning  cocktail.  Foyle  leans  against  the  bar. 

"I  suppose  you  mean,  Sedley,  that  New  York  has 
wired  Cranahan's  denial  of  the  story  I  gave  you 
yesterday,"  he  says  quietly. 

"Marvelous  man,"  exclaims  Sedley.  "You 
guessed  it  the  very  first  time." 

"I  can't  see  how  Cranahan's  denial  of  what 
Willoughby  says  affects  us,"  remarks  Foyle.  "We 
aren't  responsible  for  errors  made  by  The  Mag- 
nificent. ' ' 

Sedley  whistles  softly.  "Certainly  there's  noth- 
ing the  matter  with  your  nerve,  Foyle,"  he  states. 

Foyle  accepts  his  cocktail  from  the  bar-tender. 
He  lifts  the  glass  to  his  lips,  "Happy  days,"  he 
salutes  the  group  of  correspondents. 


198  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

Ordinarily  various  responses  would  have  been 
made  to  his  toast.  A  muttered  word,  the  wave  of  a 
hand,  the  nodding  of  a  head,  the  reciprocal  lifting 
of  a  glass :  these,  any  of  them,  would  have  been  the 
proper  and  natural  response.  But  to-day  none  of 
them  are  in  evidence.  Instead,  the  group  of  men 
seated  on  the  bench  against  the  wall,  and  about  the 
marble-topped  tables,  simply  stare  questionably  at 
him. 

Foyle  slowly  puts  down  his  glass,  its  contents 
untouched.  He  looks  from  Sedley  to  Bellows,  and 
from  Bellows  to  Manners,  and  from  Manners  to 
young  Tom  Eeynolds.  But  even  in  the  eyes  of  the 
latter,  his  closest  friend  in  the  group,  he  reads 
doubt.  Slowly  his  tall  figure  straightens.  It  seems 
to  lose  its  gangling  quality;  it  suddenly  seems 
closely  knit,  invested  with  dignity. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said  quietly,  "explanations  are  in 
order."  His  gray  eyes  fix  upon  the  face  of  Sedley. 
"Suppose  you  make  them,"  he  suggests  to  the  cor- 
respondent of  the  Crier. 

"Gladly,"  Sedley  accepts  the  challenge.  "You 
didn't  come  here  at  five  yesterday  as  you  told  us 
you  would  do.  Instead,  you  telephoned  and  I  talked 
with  you.  You  said  that  you  had  seen  both  of  the 
Willoughbys ;  in  fact,  that  you  were  taking  tea  with 
them  that  very  moment  at  Armenonville.  You  said 
that  both  of  them  emphatically  denied  any  thought 
of  divorce.  Then  you  very  generously" — Sedley 's 
thin  lips  curl  slightly  beneath  his  blonde  mustache 
— "told  me  that  Willoughby  had  given  you  an  ex- 
clusive story,  but  that  in  view  of  the  fact  that  you 
had  been  representing  all  of  us  when  you  inter- 
viewed him,  you  felt  that  the  exclusive  story  ought 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  199 

to  be  shared  by  the  rest  of  us.  Am  I  correct  thus 
far?"  His  voice  is  acidly  polite. 

Foyle  nods  slowly  in  assent.  "Thus  far,"  he  says 
quietly.  There  may  be  an  implication  in  his  voice, 
although  he  seems  to  us  too  frank  a  person  for  that. 
But  Sedley  colors  angrily. 

"Correct  me  if  I  make  any  mistakes,"  he  invites 
Foyle. 

"I  will,"  replies  Foyle  laconically. 

"I  asked  you,"  continued  Sedley,  "what  the  ex- 
clusive story  was.  You  told  me  that  Willoughby 
had  announced  to  you  Cranahan's  retirement  from 
business,  and  Willoughby 's  succession  to  his  place. 
You  said  that  Willoughby  gave  permission  to  quote 
him.  Is  that  right?" 

"Absolutely,"  replies  Foyle.  "What's  the  mat- 
ter with  you  boys,  anyway?  This  isn't  the  first 
time  that  one  prominent  person  has  denied  the  state- 
ment of  another  prominent  person  is  it?" 

"No,"  admits  Sedley.  "But  it's  the  first  time  in 
my  recollection  that  the  foreign  correspondent  of  a 
New  York  newspaper  has  been  flatly  contradicted 
by  the  man  whom  he  professed  to  quote." 

"I  don't  like  that  word  'professed,'  "  says  Foyle 
quietly. 

"We  don't  like  having  to  cable  retractions  to  our 
newspapers,"  snaps  Sedley. 

"You  mean  to  tell  me  that  The  Magnificent  has 
denied  making  the  statement  about  Cranahan?" 
asks  Foyle. 

He  puts  his  question  directly  to  Sedley.  By  tacit 
consent  the  conversation  has  been  confined  to  these 
two.  Sedley  replies  to  him. 

"Shortly  after  midnight  I  received  a  wire  from 


200  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

the  New  York  office.  It  said  that  Cranahan  denied 
his  retirement.  I  managed  to  get  Willoughby  on 
the  telephone.  I  got  Mrs.  Willoughby  first,  and  she 
had  me  connected  with  her  husband.  Evidently 
they're  occupying  two  different  suites."  His  lips 
curl  again  in  the  sneer  that  has  not  won  him  any 
great  measure  of  popularity  among  his  fellows.  '  *  Of 
course  that  doesn't  mean  that  they're  contemplat- 
ing divorce,  but  neither  does  it  mean  that  they 
are  particularly  intimate.  However,  let  that 
pass." 

' 'Let's,"  suggests  Foyle.  "I'd  hate  to  be  called 
a  liar  twice  in  the  same  moment."  His  voice  is 
calm;  but  there  is  a  light  in  his  gray  eyes  that  is 
not  exactly  amicable. 

Sedley  is  not  at  all  lacking  in  courage.  "No  one 
here  has  called  you  a  liar,  yet,  Foyle,"  he  says. 
"Even  Willoughby  didn't  say  that." 

"Exactly  what  did  he  say?"  asks  Foyle,  still 
quietly. 

"I  read  him  my  cable  from  New  York  containing 
Cranahan 's  denial.  He  told  me  that  he  had  never 
made  any  such  statement.  Naturally  I  was  sur- 
prised. I  told  him  so.  He  admitted  that  you  had 
spent  several  hours  in  the  company  of  himself  and 
his  wife  yesterday.  He  said  that  you  and  he  were 
friends  of  long  standing.  But  he  also  said  that  he 
had  never  made  the  statement  attributed  to  him  by 
you,  and  that  you  must  have  completely  misunder- 
stood him. 

"I  think  that  puts  it  up  to  you,  Foyle." 

Foyle  looks  at  him ;  he  looks  at  each  of  the  others 
in  turn.  He  finds  something  akin  to  sorrow  on  the 
faces  of  all  except  Sedley;  young  Tom  Eeynolds, 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  201 

indeed,  looks  as  one  might  who  has  received  a  mor- 
tal blow. 

"I'll  have  to  see  Willoughby, "  says  Foyle. 
11  There's  some  mistake." 

Sedley  laughs  mockingly.  "I  rather  think  there 
is,"  he  says. 

Foyle  ignores  him.  "I'll  see  Willoughby  as  soon 
as  I  can.  I'll  make  an  appointment  for  him  to  re- 
ceive you  all  and  straighten  this  matter  out.  My 
God,"  he  becomes  suddenly  aroused,  "why  on  earth 
should  you  boys  be  so  willing  to  believe  that  I  de- 
liberately deceived  you?  I  thought  you  were  my 
friends'?  Why  would  I  lie  to  my  friends!" 

"No  one  has  used  the  word  'lie'  but  yourself. 
You  seem  fond  of  it,"  says  Sedley.  "You  ask  us 
what  your  motive  might  be?  Well,  as  I  recollect 
the  matter  over  several  years,  wasn't  Willoughby, 
or  Willoughby 's  friends,  mixed  up  in  the  affair  that 
resulted  in  your  resignation  as  mayor  of  Oldport  ? ' ' 

"You  mean  that  I  might  try  to  get  even  by  involv- 
ing him  in  trouble  with  Cranahan?"  asks  Foyle. 

Sedley  shrugs  his  shoulders.  "There's  a  possi- 
bility, isn  't  there  1 ' ' 

Foyle  eyes  him.  "Knocking  a  man  down  doesn't 
prove  anything,  does  it,  Sedley?" 

"You're  at  liberty  to  find  out  if  it  does,"  replies 
the  Crier  man.  Certainly  Sedley  does  not  lack  phys- 
ical courage.  Neither  does  Foyle,  but  after  a 
moment  of  silence,  a  moment  in  which  the  others  are 
tense,  their  muscles  rigid,  ready  to  interfere,  Foyle 
turns  and  walks  from  the  room.  After  all,  Sedley 
is  only  repeating  what  Jim  Willoughby  has  told  him. 
Foyle  cannot  blame  Sedley.  He  knows,  too,  that, 
after  all,  Sedley  will  apologize  handsomely  when 


202  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

Willoughby  has  cleared  up  the  misunderstanding. 
Sedley  may  be  small  of  spirit,  but  he  is  a  man  for  all 
that.  Realizing  how  easily  Foyle  could  thrash  the 
Crier  correspondent  we  are  forced  to  respect  him 
for  refraining. 

He  walks  directly  to  the  Meurice.  On  this  journey 
he  does  not  see  the  greeting  waved  to  him  by  the 
gendarme.  His  eyes  seem  to  be  turned  inward  as 
though  he  is  searching  his  own  soul.  He  sends  up 
his  name  to  The  Magnificent  and  is  told  to  ascend 
to  his  appartment.  He  finds  Willoughby  fully 
dressed,  eating  a  late  breakfast. 

The  Magnificent  smilingly  waves  Foyle  to  a  seat. 
"Have  some  coffee,  Sam?  Not  that  any  French- 
man ever  learned  how  to  make  it,  but  still  it's  wet 
and  warm." 

Foyle  comes  directly  to  the  point.  "What's  the 
idea,  Jim,  in  denying  the  interview  you  gave  me 
yesterday?" 

The  Magnificent  laughs;  one  suspects  that  his 
mirth  is  not  too  genuine.  ' '  Teddy  Roosevelt  set  the 
example,  and  you  can't  be  a  good  American  unless 
you  deny  to-day  what  you  said  yesterday,"  he  says. 

"But  aside  from  the  little  tribute  to  a  great  man, 
the  sweet  flattery  of  imitation,  why  ? ' '  demands  Foyle. 

The  Magnificent  grimaces.  "A  rotten  trick  of 
me,  Sam,  but  it  had  to  be  done." 

Once  more  Foyle  asks,  "Why?" 

"It's  this  way,"  explains  The  Magnificent.  "A 
select  few  of  us  have  decided  that  Cranahan  is  an 
old  fogy,  behind  the  times,  blocking  progress  with 
his  too  great  conservatism.  Of  course  he  has  too 
much  money  to  be  got  entirely  rid  of,  but  we  de- 
cided to  edge  him  out  by  degrees.  If  I  had  remained 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  203 

in  New  York,  instead  of  coming  over  here,  he'd  have 
been  out  by  now.  But  my  absence  weakened  us. 
However,  I  received  cables  on  my  arrival  here  tell- 
ing me  that  a  little  hint  would  not  do  any  harm.  So 
I  gave  you  the  interview.  I  thought  that  the  old 
man  would  lie  down  under  it.  But  he  has  lots  of 
friends  and  powerful  connections.  He's  showing  a 
little  fight.  So  I  received  cablegrams  last  night 
from  friends  of  mine,  who  are  also  friends  of  his. 
As  soon  as  newspapermen  went  to  see  him  about  his 
retirement  from  business,  he  told  these  friends  of 
mine  of  my  statement.  They  cabi?d  me  to  withdraw 
the  statement.  They  got  a  promise  from  Cranahan 
to  retire  next  fall,  but  if  we  fight,  now,  he'll  fight, 
too.  That  would  be  bad  for  business. 

11  Cranahan 's  a  proud  old  boy.  When  he  retires 
he  wants  to  make  the  announcement  himself.  And 
when  a  man  is  worth  a  hundred  million  dollars,  and 
controls  a  billion  more,  one  has  to  consider  his  pride. 
I'm  considering  it." 

"I  wish  you'd  consider  mine,"  says  Foyle  mildly. 

"I'll  make  it  all  right  with  the  Trumpet  people," 
laughs  The  Magnificent.  "I  own  a  block  of  stock 
in  that  paper." 

"How  about  making  it  right  with  my  associates? 
They  consider  me,  an  unqualified  liar,"  objects 
Foyle. 

The  Magnificent  abandons  his  pretence  of  light 
good  humor. 

"I'm  sorry,  old  man,"  he  says  earnestly.  "When 
I  gave  you  the  statement  I  had  no  idea  in  the  world 
that  Cranahan  would  fight.  But  you  can  see  how  a 
reiteration  of  my  statement  would  seem  now." 

"I'm  so  darned  petty-minded  that  I  can  only  see 


204  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

my  side  of  it,"  says  Foyle.  "Every  correspondent 
in  Paris  will  think  me  a  deliberate  lying  faker.  The 
Trumpet  editors  will  think  the  same." 

"Damn  it,"  cries  The  Magnificent,  "I'll  buy  the 
Trumpet  to-day!  I'll  wire  my  lawyers  to  buy  the 
majority  of  the  stock.  I  know  where  it  is  and  how 
much  it  will  cost.  I'll  make  you  managing  editor. 
How's  that?" 

"It's  magnificent,  Jim,  like  yourself,"  concedes 
Foyle,  "but  it  isn't  what  I  want.  I  want  back  the 
good  name  you've  taken  from  me." 

Willoughby  grins.  * '  Do  you  know  what  you  sound 
like,  Sam?" 

"Like  a  girl  pleading  for  her  seducer  to  marry 
her,"  says  Foyle.  "But,  hang  it,  Jim,  that's  what 
I  feel  like.  I  don't  want  to  be  managing  editor  of 
the  Trumpet.  I  want  the  gang  here  to  know  that 
I'm  not  a  liar." 

He  is  smiling,  but  his  eyes  are  fixed  purposefully 
upon  The  Magnificent,  who  stirs  uneasily  beneath 
that  steady  stare. 

"To  start  a  fight  with  Cranahan  might,  as  I  just 
told  you,  be  bad  for  business,"  says  The  Magnifi- 
cent. "It  might  bring  on  another  panic.  It  would 
certainly  upset  public  confidence  in  the  leaders  of 
finance. ' ' 

"A  lot  of  confidence  in  me  has  been  upset,"  as- 
serts Foyle. 

Willoughby 's  brows,  gray  and  thick,  hump  in  the 
middle,  in  their  old  fashion.  His  thin  upper  lip 
draws  in.  The  sensuous  lower  lip  protrudes  stub- 
bornly. "I'd  rather  give  you  a  million  dollars, 
Sam,"  he  declares. 

"I  wouldn't  take  ten  million,"  retorts  Foyle. 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  206 

They  stand  there — The  Magnificent  has  risen  and 
has  been  walking  up  and  down — looking  at  each 
other.  A  knock  upon  the  door  breaks  the  tension. 
Willoughby  calls,  "Come  in." 

Ramsey  enters  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

There  is  a  pretty  color  upon  Ramsey's  cheeks  as 
she  knocks  upon  the  door.  She  has  felt  that,  in 
coming  to  her  husband's  apartment,  she  is  doing 
something  that  is  almost  naughty.  The  knowing 
smile  of  the  elevator  man,  and  the  sympathetic  en- 
thusiasm of  the  maid  on  Willoughby's  floor,  who 
directs  her  to  the  apartment  of  monsieur  her  hus- 
band, have  contributed  to  her  feeling  of  indiscretion. 
It  is,  however,  a  delicious  feeling,  one  that  she  would 
like  to  prolong. 

Indeed,  perhaps  this  feminine  desire  on  her  part 
was  responsible  for  Willoughby's  being  sent  to  his 
own  rooms  last  night.  For  on  their  return  from 
the  party  a  trois,  Willoughby  clearly  shows  a  will- 
ingness, now  that  Foyle  has  left  them,  to  continue 
the  party  a  deux.  Had  he  followed  his  attitude  of 
pleading  by  a  resumption  of  his  familiar  one  of 
masterfulness,  he  would  undoubtedly  have  crashed 
through  her  petty  defences  of  pride. 

But  he  has  kept  to  his  manner  of  humility.  He 
has  never  quite  understood  what  it  is  in  him  that 
affronts  and  hurts  Ramsey,  that  drives  them  apart. 
Now  that  she  is  apparently  at  the  point  of  forget- 
ting whatever  it  is  that  has  separated  them,  he  is 
reluctant  to  do  anything  hasty.  He  has  waited 
years  to  re-win  her;  he  will  not  jeopardize  his  vic- 
tory by  a  too  great  impetuosity.  So,  when  he  has 

207 


208  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

but  to  reach  out  his  hand  and  draw  her  to  him,  he 
permits  caution  to  rule  him. 

Little  sleep  has  Ramsey  that  night.  Yet  as  she 
knocks  upon  the  door  her  face  is  not  haggard,  as 
one  might  expect  the  face  of  any  woman  of  thirty- 
seven  to  be  after  a  restless  night.  Indeed,  it  is 
fresh  and  blooming,  and  her  eyes  have  that  misty 
look  which  happiness  brings.  For  if  The  Magni- 
ficent feels  that  he  is  winning  a  victory,  Ramsey 
feels  exactly  the  same.  And  she  has  not  had  other 
campaigns  to  help  her  to  forget  that  a  battle  is 
being  waged. 

It  is  a  gentle  impulse  that  suddenly  makes  her 
hasten  her  toilet.  So  patently  does  Willoughby  de- 
sire her  that  it  seems  cruel  to  keep  to  her  aloofness. 
With  such  reasoning,  at  any  rate,  she  argues 
against  the  pride  that  bids  her  go  slowly.  Like  all 
people  of  generous  nature,  Eamsey,  when  she  has 
won,  disdains  to  impose  harsh  terms  upon  the  van- 
quished. Perhaps,  though,  it  is  a  hunger  for  love, 
as  much  as  generosity,  that  moves  her. 

The  color  upon  her  cheeks  spreads  to  her  throat 
and  forehead  as  she  enters  the  room  and  sees  that 
Willoughby  already  has  a  guest,  and  that  the  guest 
is  Foyle.  The  presence  of  a  stranger  would  not  have 
embarrassed  her,  but  the  finding  of  Foyle  in  the 
company  of  her  husband  is  disconcerting.  We  can- 
not understand  this,  any  more  than  we  can  under- 
stand why  people  who  will  go  to  extremes  to  hide 
domestic  discords  from  the  members  of  their  fam- 
ilies, will  discuss  them  frankly  over  the  bridge  table 
or  in  Pullman  smoking  cars. 

Her  own  confusion  makes  her  oblivious  to  the  tense- 
ness of  the  situation  upon  which  she  has  intruded. 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  209 

"Oh,"  she  says  blankly.  "I  didn't  know  anyone 
was  with  you. ' ' 

"Good  old  Sam  isn't  'anyone',"  laughs  The  Mag- 
nificent. "He's  somebody."  The  aplomb  that  al- 
ways characterizes  him  does  not  desert  him  now. 

Ramsey  is  too  much  a  woman  of  the  world  to  be 
unable  to  cover  up  her  temporary  loss  of  savoir 
faire.  "I  should  say  he  is  somebody,"  she  says 
warmly.  "Have  you  finished  breakfast,  or  am  I  in 
time  to  join  you?"  she  asks  her  husband  as  she 
gives  her  hand  to  Foyle. 

The  Magnificent  is  relieved  at  her  presence.  He 
has  not  meant  to  injure  Foyle  by  his  denial  of  the 
interview  he  gave  to  the  correspondent  yesterday; 
he  has  only  meant  to  protect  himself  and  those  vast 
interests  which  he  helps  to  control,  and  which  have 
come  to  him  to  seem  more  important  than  any  in- 
dividual, or  group  of  individuals,  or  the  nation  it- 
self. In  fact,  those  interests  seem  to  him  to  be  the 
nation.  He  is  one  of  the  many  Americans  who  did 
not  smile  when  Mr.  Baer  spoke  of  the  divine  right 
of  the  coal  operators ;  he  is  one  of  those  who  indig- 
nantly disapproved  of  Dr.  Pentecost  when  he  re- 
fused the  gift  of  a  certain  millionaire  on  the  ground 
that  his  money  was  tainted.  He  is  one  of  the  many 
who  do  not  smile  when  sycophants  speak  of  the  great 
millionaires  as  stewards  performing  the  tasks  en- 
trusted to  them  by  a  discerning  God.  He  is  one  of 
the  many  who  firmly  believe  that  big  business  is 
not  merely  moral,  but  is  the  higher  morality  itself. 

That  Foyle 's  injuries  could  not  be  assuaged  by 
such  offers  as  he  has  just  made  is  not  understand- 
able to  him.  He  would  not  hurt  Foyle  merely  to 
save  himself  hurt,  but  when  business  might  also  be 


210  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

injured  he  cannot  consider  Foyle.  For  he  tells  the 
literal  truth  when  he  says  that  a  quarrel  between 
himself  and  Cranahan  might  precipitate  a  panic  in 
the  financial  world ;  who  is  Foyle  that  he  should  be 
considered  more  important  than  the  stability  of 
finance? 

"You  certainly  are  in  time,"  he  tells  Eamsey. 
"Only,  had  I  known  that  I  was  to  be  thus  honored, 
I'd  have  had  flowers  here.  I'll  ring  for  a  waiter." 

There  is  something  hasty  in  his  voice  and  manner 
that,  having  had  time  to  conquer  her  confusion, 
Ramsey  notices.  She  looks  from  him  to  Foyle  and 
discovers  that  the  face  of  the  latter  is  more  grim 
than  she  has  ever  noticed  it  to  be.  She  is  suddenly 
aware  of  the  tensity  in  the  air. 

"Are  you  two  boys  quarreling?"  She  blurts  out 
the  question  almost  without  realizing  what  she  is 
saying. 

The  Magnificent  turns  from  the  telephone  where 
he  has  been  giving  precise  orders  to  the  steward  on 
duty  at  "room  service." 

"Quarreling?  Why  on  earth  should  Sam  and  I 
quarrel  ?  "  he  asks. 

Ramsey  laughs  nervously.  "It  was  a  silly  ques- 
tion to  ask;  but  you  two  seem  so — funny." 

The  Magnificent 's  laughter  is  almost  boisterous. 
"That's  a  chance  for  you,  Sam,"  he  cries.  "I've 
been  called  everything  else  by  the  gentlemen  of  the 
press,  but  never  'funny'.  I'd  like  to  have  the  papers 
get  a  little  humor  out  of  me,  instead  of  finding  me 
a  source  of  menace." 

Ramsey  comes  immediately  to  his  defense.  "It's 
only  the  yellow  journals  that  do  that,"  she  declares. 
We  find  her  almost  amusing.  Rather,  we  would  find 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  211 

her  amusing  if  we  did  not  have  pity  for  her.  For 
there  is  nothing  really  humorous  in  the  spectacle  of 
a  woman  fighting  for  her  love. 

"I  know,"  responds  The  Magnificent,  "but  there 
are  too  many  of  them.  It's  a  shame  that  more  of 
our  better  citizens  haven't  realized  the  possibilities 
of  the  press  and  gone  in  for  publishing  news- 
papers. ' ' 

* '  Quite  a  few  papers  are  owned  by  our  better  cit- 
izens," says  Foyle,  mildly. 

"I  know  that,  but  more  of  them  should  go  in  for 
publishing.  It's  a  menace  to  the  nation,  the  yellow 
press.  We  are  flooded  with  immigrants  who  nat- 
urally, being  ignorant,  uneducated,  almost  illiterate, 
are  attracted  by  glaring  headlines  and  crude  car- 
toons. They  see,  in  type  and  picture,  vilifications 
of  the  men  who  are  making  America.  They  believe 
these  news  articles  and  cartoons.  If  the  people  at 
the  bottom  have  no  faith  in  the  people  at  the  top, 
how  long  can  society  endure  f ' ' 

"Why  don't  you  buy  some  newspapers?"  sug- 
gests Ramsey.  In  the  glamour  that  has  suddenly 
surrounded  The  Magnificent — for  her — she  is  whole- 
heartedly in  accord  with  what  he  is  saying.  At  an- 
other time  she  might  analyze  his  speech  and  find 
that  it  is  founded  on  selfishness.  But  just  now  her 
heart  is  completely  master  of  her  mind,  and  Wil- 
loughby  has  resumed  his  old  sway  as  master  of  her 
heart. 

"I'm  going  to,"  says  her  husband.  "I've  just 
offered  to  buy  the  Trumpet  and  make  Sam  its  man- 
aging editor." 

Ramsey  looks  at  Foyle.  "So  that's  why  you 
were  so  serious." 


212  A  MORE   HONORABLE   MAN 

Foyle  looks  at  her;  it  seems  a  full  minute  before 
he  replies.  He  reads  her  easily.  He  knows  how 
much,  deep  down  in  her  heart,  she  loves  her  hus- 
band. He  also  realizes  how  deeply  he,  Sam  Foyle, 
loves  this  wife  of  another  man.  It  is  a  great  love 
which  he  holds  for  her ;  it  is  a  love  that  is  willing  to 
give  everything,  and  to  forgive  everything.  Even 
that  day  when  she  offered  to  go  away  with  him ;  he 
has  forgiven  that.  For  he  knew  that  no  matter  what 
she  considered,  at  that  moment,  her  intentions  to 
be,  they  were  not  what  she  considered  them.  He 
knew  that  she  was  merely  trying  to  use  him  as  a 
means  to  re-gain  her  husband.  And  he  did  not  bear 
resentment  then,  nor  does  he  bear  it  now. 

He  loves  her  so  much  that  he  places  her  happiness 
above  everything  else  in  the  world,  even  his  own 
honor.  He  resigned  from  the  mayoralty  of  Oldport 
in  order  that  no  cloud  should  cast  its  shadow  over 
the  Willoughby  menage.  That  the  resignation  made 
him  seem  venal  did  not  matter.  He  was  nothing; 
Ramsey  Willoughby  was  all. 

He  knows  that  there  has  been  estrangement  be- 
tween these  two,  and  he  can  tell  that  the  breaclj  is 
closing,  indeed,  is  closed.  Who  is  he  to  re-open  it? 

"Yes,"  he  says.    "That  is  why  I  am  so  serious." 

Willoughby  sighs  with  relief.  For  a  moment  he 
has  feared  that  Sam  would  not  have  ordinary  com- 
mon sense.  Sam  has  shown  so  little  common  sense 
in  the  past  that  The  Magnificent  has  little  reason  to 
expect  him  to  evince  any  now. 

"You're  going  to  take  it,  Sam?"  he  asks. 

Foyle 's  eyes  seem  suddenly  sad,  weary.  "We'll 
talk  it  over  later,  Jim,"  he  answers.  "Meanwhile 
—I'll  think  about  it." 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  213 

He  picks  up  his  hat  from  the  chair  on  which  he 
has  placed  it.  The  waiter  is  just  entering  the  room, 
staggering  beneath  the  breakfast  tray  ordered  for 
Ramsey. 

"I'll  run  along,"  says  Foyle. 

Politely  Eamsey  asks  him  to  stay,  but  she  does 
not  urge  him.  She  is  fond  of  Sam  Foyle,  but  she 
loves  her  husband,  and  it  is  a  long  time  since  she  and 
Willoughby  have  breakfasted  together.  The  Magnifi- 
cent follows  Foyle  from  the  room  to  the  elevator. 

"Is  it  all  right,  Sam?"  he  asks. 

Foyle  twists  the  Homburg  hat  in  his  strong,  big- 
knuckled  fingers. 

"You  know  it  isn't,  Jim,"  he  answers.  "It's  all 
wrong. ' ' 

"But  if  you're  made  managing  editor  of  the 
Trumpet,  that's  answer  enough  to  any  tale  of  your 
having  written  a  fake,"  argues  Willoughby. 

"I  couldn't  be  managing  editor  of  any  paper," 
objects  Foyle.  "I  don't  know  anything  about  run- 
ning a  newspaper." 

"Rot!    You  can  learn,  can't  you?" 

"I  wouldn't  want  it,  anyway,"  says  Foyle.  "I'm 
happy  doing  my  work  here. ' ' 

"Then  continue  that  work."  The  Magnificent 
laughs.  "You  needn't  worry  about  the  Trumpet 
doing  anything  to  you.  That  was  a  good  hunch  of 
mine,  to  buy  the  paper.  I  '11  cable  New  York  to-day. ' ' 

Foyle  shakes  his  head.  "Don't  do  it  for  me,"  he 
says.  "I  think  I'm  through  corresponding,  Jim." 

The  Magnificent 's  eyes  show  vexation.  "Damn 
it  all,  Sam,  all  you  have  to  do  is  say  that  you  mis- 
understood me.  I'll  say  the  same  thing.  That 
makes  it  all  right,  doesn't  it?" 


214  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

"With  the  Trumpet  office,  yes.  With  the  public, 
as  much  of  it  as  cares  a  hoot,  yes.  But  I  just  left 
the  Paris  correspondents  in  Maxim's.  I  told  them 
that  I  had  told  the  truth.  If  I  go  to  them  now  and 
say  that  I  was  mistaken,  what  will  they  think?" 

"To  hell  with  what  a  lot  of  damn'  penny-a-liners 
think  I  Who  are  they,  anyway?"  cries  Willoughby. 

"It  doesn't  matter  who  or  what  they  are,"  re- 
torts Foyle.  "For  that  matter,  the  more  unimpor- 
tant they  might  be,  the  more  I'd  want  them  not  to 
think  me  crooked." 

The  Magnificent  is  thoroughly  exasperated. 
"That's  just  the  sort  of  nonsense  I'd  expect  from 
you.  You  always  had  the  wrong  slant  on  life.  You 
never  cared  what  the  respectable  people  thought. 
You  always  cared  more  for  what  the  no-account  peo- 
ple thought." 

"Well,"  says  Foyle  smiling,  "it's  too  late  for 
me  to  aquire  a  new  philosophy,  and  practice  it, 
Jim." 

The  two  men  stare  at  each  other.  Foyle 's  gaze 
is  somewhat  quizzical ;  certainly  it  is  tolerant.  The 
Magnificent 's  expression  loses  its  exasperation;  it 
becomes  tinged  with  regret,  with  something  more 
than  regret. 

"Sam,"  he  says,  suddenly,  "I  don't  care  a  damn 
what  happens.  I  don't  care  if  it  does  smash  busi- 
ness. You're  a  friend  of  mine,  and  I  don't  throw 
down  my  friends.  I  think  you're  fussy,  foolishly 
fussy.  But  hell's  bells,  if  a  man  can't  be  fussy  about 
his  own  business,  I'd  like  to  know  what  he  can  be 
finicky  about.  I  say  that  the  opinion  of  half  a  dozen 
newspaper  writers  isn't  worth  thinking  about.  You 
say  it  is.  All  right.  I'll  send  for  them  at  once  and 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  215 

tell  them  that  your  interview  with  me  was  correct. 
Does  that  satisfy  you  ? ' ' 

Foyle  looks  at  his  friend.  "You'll  really  do  that, 
Jim?" 

"You  know  I  will,  if  I  say  so,"  says  The  Mag- 
nificent. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Jim.  Of  course  I  know  it," 
apologizes  Foyle. 

"Get  your  bunch  of  newspaper  men  over  here 
right  away, ' '  says  Willoughby. 

Foyle  hesitates.  "It  will  be  rather  difficult  for 
you,  Jim.  You  know  you  told  Sedley  that  I  had 
misquoted  you." 

"Do  you  suppose  I  care  what  Sedley  thinks?"  de- 
mands The  Magnificent. 

"Maybe  not;  but  I  do,"  objects  Foyle.  "You're 
a  friend  of  mine,  and  I  don't  want  to  embarrass 
you."  He  stands  there  before  the  elevator  shaft, 
his  brows  wrinkled  in  thought.  "Jim,"  he  says 
suddenly,  "exactly  what  would  be  the  effect  of  a 
row  between  you  and  Cranahan  now?" 

"Exactly  what  I  told  you  a  while  ago,"  answers 
The  Magnificent.  "Panic.  That  means  withdrawal 
of  credit,  which  means  unemployment." 

"I  guess,"  says  Foyle,  slowly,  "you  needn't  with- 
draw your  denial.  After  all,  I'm  not  important 
enough  to  matter  that  much. ' ' 

Willoughby  shrugs  his  shoulders.  "It's  up  to 
you,  old  man, ' '  he  tells  Foyle.  1 1 1  want  to  do  what 's 
right  by  you." 

"And  I  want  to  do  what's  right  by  the  people  who 
would  be  affected  by  a  financial  panic, ' '  states  Foyle. 
He  is  suddenly  angry,  a  rare  emotion  with  him.  At 
least  he  rarely  allows  it  to  be  perceptible. 


216  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

"Jim,  you  shouldn't  have  put  me  in  this  posi- 
tion." 

"I  didn't  mean  to,  Sam,"  replies  The  Magnificent. 
"Make  up  your  mind." 

Foyle's  shoulders  sag.  "Let  it  go,  Jim,"  he 
says. 

Willoughby  slaps  him  on  the  back.  "Don't  you 
worry  about  your  job,  either,"  he  advises. 

Foyle  stares  at  him  again.  "My  job?  I'm  quit- 
ting that  to-day, ' '  he  announces. 

"Oh,  that's  nonsense!  You  talk  like  a  damn' 
fool,"  cries  The  Magnificent. 

"I  act  like  one,  too,"  sighs  Foyle.  "But  I  can't 
help  being  what  I  am,  Jim,  any  more  than  you  can 
help  being  what  you  are." 

The  Magnificent  flushes.  "I  don't  understand 
that,  Sam,"  he  says.  "What  the  devil  do  you 
mean?" 

Foyle  laughs  gently.  "I  couldn't  explain  to  you, 
Jim.  Some  day  you'll  know." 

The  Magnificent 's  face  grows  redder.  "Look 
here,  Sam,  I've  offered  to  do  what  you  want,  what 
could  be  fairer?" 

"Nothing,"  admits  Foyle. 

"Then  what  are  you  kicking  about?"  demands 
Willoughby. 

"Nothing,"  answers  Foyle. 

' '  It  seems  to  me  you  're  doing  a  lot  of  talking  about 
nothing,  then,"  says  The  Magnificent. 

"Then  I'll  stop,"  says  Foyle. 

The  elevator  arrives  and  he  steps  into  it.  The 
Magnificent  reaches  out  and  grasps  his  elbow. 

"Look  here,  old  man,  you  can't  go  away  angry." 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  217 

"I'm  not,"  says  Foyle.  "But  I  can't  help  feel- 
ing sorry." 

"Damnation,"  says  The  Magnificent,  "haven't  I 
told  you  that  I'll  fix  it  up  with  the  Trumpet?" 

"I'm  not  sorry  about  myself,"  says  Foyle. 

"That  sounds  as  though  you  meant  you  were 
sorry  for  me,"  says  Willoughby. 

"Does  it!"  asks  Foyle. 

The  elevator  man  slams  the  door,  and  the  lift  de- 
scends before  Willoughby  can  answer.  For  a  mo- 
ment The  Magnificent  stands  in  the  hall.  At  first 
he  is  angry;  then  he  is  perplexed.  But  after  all, 
Sam  has  plenty  of  common  sense,  even  though  he 
frequently  doesn't  use  it.  If  he  hadn't  had  common 
sense  he'd  have  insisted  on  The  Magnificent 's  re- 
traction of  the  denial  he  made  to  Sedley.  Of  course 
Sam  is  a  little  peeved  now,  but  he'll  get  over  it. 
The  Magnificent  will  make  matters  all  right.  A 
word  to  the  men  who  employ  Sedley  and  the  others 
will  square  matters  for  Sam. 

Thus  The  Magnificent  quiets  a  conscience  that 
Foyle 's  last  question  has  awakened.  It  is  easily 
quieted.  After  all  one  must  consider  the  greatest 
good  to  the  greatest  number.  That's  what  Foyle 
did.  The  Magnificent  does  the  same  thing.  It  is 
not  to  be  expected  that  those  entrusted  with  the  des- 
tiny of  a  great  nation  should  always  fail  to  injure 
anyone.  Indeed,  it  is  remarkable  that  accidents  are 
so  few.  And  this  is  such  a  slight  accident,  so  read- 
ily repaired.  The  Magnificent  will  see  to  it  that 
Foyle 's  salary  is  raised. 

That  ought  to  help.  He'd  like  to  find  out  some- 
thing that  money  couldn't  help.  He  hasn't  found  it 


218  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

yet.  Except,  and  this  is  a  disquieting  thought,  in 
marriage.  Still,  it  hasn't  done  any  harm  there. 
Suppose  that  he  and  Ramsey  had  been  poor:  they'd 
have  been  a  lot  unhappier  than  they  have  been. 

He  is  smiling  eagerly  as  he  re-enters  his  apart- 
ment. 


CHAPTER  XX 

He  does  not  lose  his  eager  smile  throughout  the 
course  of  the  meal.  It  is  true  that  he  has  not  passed 
a  wakeful  night  as  Ramsey  has;  he  has  slept  as 
calmly  as  though  business  battles  and  domestic  dis- 
cords were  trifles.  Nevertheless,  although  his  iron 
will  controls  his  emotions ;  although  he  can  face  an 
aroused  Cranahan  or  a  disdainful  Ramsey  with  a 
fatalistic  philosophy  that  regulates  his  pulse,  he  is 
not  completely  immune  to  excitement.  Excitement 
has  never  been  permitted  by  him  to  make  him  devi- 
ate from  what  he  considers  to  be  the  course  of  hard 
common  sense;  it  has  never  interfered  with  his 
sleep.  But  there  are  times  when  it  is  a  pleasurable 
relaxation,  from  the  stern  business  of  life,  to  yield 
to  excitement. 

This  is  one  of  the  times.  He  has  been  under  some- 
thing of  a  strain.  But  now  his  long  continued  strug- 
gle with  Cranahan  is  ended ;  the  great  financier  will 
retire  in  the  fall,  making  way  for  a  greater.  The 
Magnificent  has  not  conquered  the  last  steep  ascent, 
but  it  presents  no  difficulty  to  the  man  who  has 
climbed  so  far.  He  is  merely  resting  now,  taking  in 
the  marvelous  scene  below  him.  He  sees  an  over- 
ailed  mechanic  in  a  little  bicycle  repair  shop;  he 
sees  Pinnacle  in  its  glory;  he  sees  Willoughby  Mo- 
tors; and  then  the  scene  becomes  so  varied,  and  so 
vast,  that  it  is  difficult  to  pick  out  any  particular 
point  and  say  that  it  is  more  important,  or  more 

219 


220  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

grand,  than  the  others.  Traction  and  textile,  oil  and 
steel,  bank  and  mill,  ranch  and  refinery,  mine  and 
plantation,  steamship  and  wheat  field :  these  are  all 
in  the  valleys  below,  trophies  of  his  might. 

Remains  only  the  over-lordship  that  is  Cranahan's, 
the  over-lordship  from  which  Cranahan  will  abdi- 
cate in  a  few  months.  It  is  well  to  rest  before  mak- 
ing that  final  rush  up  the  peak;  it  is  well  to  let  one's 
lungs  become  accustomed  to  the  rarefied  air,  one's 
eyes  to  the  glitter  of  the  sun  upon  the  ice  fields. 

There  has  also  been  Ramsey.  He  has  not  under- 
stood her,  and  he  is  sure  that  she  has  neither  under- 
stood nor  sympathized  with  him.  But  she  too  is 
conquered  now,  unless  he  reads  wrongly  her  utter- 
ances, the  thoughts  that  are  expressed  in  her  misty 
violet  eyes.  And  she  is  as  well  worth  the  conquer- 
ing, almost,  as  the  heights  that  lead  to  Cranahan. 
To  be  sure,  he  would  not  have  qualified  her  worth  as 
we  have  done ;  he  honestly  believes,  at  this  moment, 
that  Ramsey  is  the  most  desirable  thing  in  the  world. 
Perhaps  that  is  because  he  has  not  yet  attained  her. 

But  the  attaining  of  her  is  only  a  matter  of  a  few 
days.  He  can  wait,  despite  the  fact  that  his  eyes 
and  smile  are  eager.  Her  eyes  and  her  smile  match 
his  own  eagerness.  But  there  is,  as  we  have  said,  a 
mistiness  in  her  eyes,  and  her  smile  is  tremulous. 

They  talk  banalities.  Finally,  Ramsey  can  find 
no  further  excuse  for  lingering  at  the  table.  She 
rises.  He  hastens  to  assist  her  and  his  hand  touches 
hers.  Color  leaps  simultaneously  to  the  cheeks  of 
each.  Her  eyes  melt;  his  burn.  Only  the  knock, 
upon  the  door,  of  the  waiter,  prevents  him  from 
seizing  her,  from  crushing  her  to  him.  She  is  wait- 
ing for  that  very  thing. 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  221 

But  when  the  waiter  has  gone,  the  moment  also 
has  gone.  For  Willoughby  is  taking  no  chances  this 
time.  He  has  almost  had  her  before,  and  has  lost 
her.  One  who  has  waited  as  long  as  he  has,  can 
wait  until  the  Lusitania  sails. 

"I  really  have  to  go  to  London  to-night,"  he  tells 
her. 

Her  warm  mouth  trembles.  "Must  you?"  she 
asks. 

He  remembers  the  night,  two  years  ago,  when 
Cranahan's  telephoned  command  sent  him  to  Mex- 
ico and  away  from  her  arms. 

He  hesitates.  "I  suppose  it  can  be  postponed," 
he  admits. 

She  shakes  her  head.  She  only  wanted  to  know 
if  business  still  was  more  important  to  him  than  her- 
self. "Don't  postpone  it,"  she  says. 

"Oh,  I  can,  all  right,"  he  declares. 

She  shakes  her  head  again.  "No;  I  won't  let 
you,"  she  insists. 

He  eyes  her  closely.  "You'll  be  here  waiting  for 
me  when  I  come  back  from  London?" 

In  his  voice  she  reads  an  implication.  Her  color 
becomes  more  deep.  "I'll  meet  you  at  Liverpool," 
she  evades  him. 

He  shakes  his  head  now.  "But  the  Lusitania 
doesn't  leave  for  several  days.  I  thought  we  might 
play  around  Paris  together  a  while."  Once  again 
his  voice  holds  the  pleading  note  that  yesterday  dis- 
armed her. 

"I'll  be  too  busy  for  play,"  she  states. 

"Nonsense!  I  mean,  hang  business!  Both  of 
us!"  He  looks  at  his  watch.  "If  I  started  this 
minute  I  could  be  in  London  this  evening.  The  con- 


222  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

ferences  I  ought  to  have  could  be  arranged  by  wire. 
Some  of  them  for  to-night.  The  rest  for  to-morrow 
morning.  I  could  be  back  here  by  the  morning  after. 
Couldn't  you  give  me  the  next  few  days?" 

She  answers  the  blaze  in  his  eyes  with  dew  in  her 
own.  If  he  could  guess  how  she  aches  for  him,  he 
would  forget  everything  of  caution  that  now  rules 
him.  She  is  waiting  for  his  embrace.  But  she  has 
made  as  many  advances  as  seem  consistent  with  her 
dignity.  She  can  make  no  more;  another  moment, 
in  which  the  last  vestige  of  her  pride  and  his  rem- 
nants of  caution  would  have  been  melted  away  by 
passion,  passes.  She  could  give  him  the  next  few 
hours,  but  this  he  does  not  know,  and  she  will  not 
tell  him. 

"I  have  so  much  shopping  to  do,"  she  says.  For 
if  the  next  few  moments  are  not  to  be  theirs,  she 
can  wait. 

' '  Shopping?  I'll  bet  you  have  clothes  enough  to 
last  for  years,"  he  laughs. 

She  laughs,  too,  with  a  mischievousness  that  is 
rare  for  her.  " Ordinary  clothes  don't  make  a 
trousseau,"  she  says. 

Another  moment  has  arrived,  in  which  barriers  of 
delay  may  be  swept  aside.  But  there  has  been  a 
mistake  in  the  breakfast  bill;  the  waiter  comes  to 
the  room  to  correct  it.  And  when  he  has  gone,  this 
other  moment  also  has  gone.  Caution  again  rules 
him,  and  pride  rules  her.  Perhaps,  also,  the  desire 
to  prolong  anticipation  bolsters  up  her  pride. 

But  she  insists  that  he  go  to  London  now.  Inas- 
much as  he  was  willing  not  to  go,  it  is  all  right  for 
him  to  go.  So  she  tells  herself.  She  is  not  going  to 
start  their  new  life  by  interfering  in  his  business 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  223 

affairs,  especially  as  he,  apparently,  is  not  going  to 
start  by  letting  business  rule  their  relations  with 
each  other. 

But,  returned  to  her  own  apartment,  she  weeps 
gently.  She  wishes  that  there  could  be  more  spon- 
taneity between  them.  When  they  were  first  mar- 
ried and  the  light  of  the  honeymoon  still  lingered, 
there  was  no  reason  in  their  actions,  in  their  re- 
gard for  each  other :  there  was  only  love. 

But  now  there  must  be  reasoning  before  each  ac- 
tion, each  word.  Craft  and  artifice  and  even  guile 
enter  into  their  relationship.  The  pretty  coquetries 
natural  to  young  love  must  be  supplanted  by  the 
planned  devices  of  mature  love. 

These  debased  love;  love  that  was  not  spontane- 
ous in  every  thought  and  word  and  action  must  be 
something  less  than  the  one  that  used  no  reason. 
Yet  the  pale  carbon  copy  that  had  taken  the  place 
of  the  original  was  better,  oh  infinitely  better,  than 
nothing  at  all. 

So  she  weeps ;  but  the  carbon  copy,  little  by  little, 
becomes  magnified  in  the  lens  of  each  tear-drop; 
until  it  seems  as  clear  as  the  original. 

She  is  compelled  to  make  her  toilet  over  again, 
and  spends  an  hour  removing  the  last  trace  of  tears. 
For  be  it  known,  if  we  have  not  made  it  clear  before, 
that  Eamsey  Willoughby  is  extremely  careful  of  her 
beauty.  It  is,  she  knows,  one  of  woman's  strongest 
weapons  in  the  battle  of  life,  and  she  has  never  pro- 
posed to  let  it  become  tarnished. 

She  spends  the  remainder  of  the  morning  at  the 
Maison  Blanc,  thence  walks  through  the  Place  de 
1 'Opera  to  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  She  pauses  there 
for  a  moment  before  the  Mason  Maret.  But,  con- 


224  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

suiting  her  watch,  she  decides  to  have  luncheon  be- 
fore visiting  the  parfumeur.  She  continues,  then, 
to  the  Place  Vendome  and  the  Ritz.  There  she  con- 
sumes salad  and  toast  and  tea.  Refreshed,  she  re- 
turns to  the  Rue  de  la  Paix. 

Her  objective,  now,  is  the  perfumery  shop,  but 
she  cannot  resist  the  sight  of  some  pearls  in  the 
window  of  a  shop  on  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Daunou. 
She  enters  and  asks  to  be  shown  the  string.  The 
obsequious  clerk  removes  it  reverently  from  its 
place  in  the  window.  A  glance  at  madame  has  told 
him  that,  though  she  might  happen  to  be  looking 
from  idle  curiosity,  she  can  well  afford  to  buy  if 
curiosity  transforms  itself  to  interest. 

She  appraises  it  carefully;  she  clasps  the  neck- 
lace about  her  throat;  she  surveys  herself  in  triple 
mirrors,  aided  by  a  fourth  glass  which  she  holds 
behind  her. 

"How  much?"  she  asks  the  clerk. 

"Eight  hundred  thousand  francs,"  he  replies. 

His  eyebrows  raise  as  madame  produces  a  tiny 
check  book ;  but  when  he  sees  the  name  that  she  signs 
to  her  check,  his  manner  loses  its  blend  of  scorn  and 
surprise.  He  almost  kisses  the  ground  upon  which 
she  walks,  so  low  is  his  bow.  For  the  name  of  Wil- 
loughby  is  as  potent  in  Paris  as  it  is  in  New  York, 
as,  for  that  matter,  it  is  in  Peru. 

Certainly  The  Magnificent  has  not  permitted 
estrangement  to  vitiate  his  generosity.  We  get 
some  idea  of  the  immensity  of  the  fortune  which  he 
has  amassed,  from  this  almost  careless  purchase  of 
his  wife.  Also  we  get  some  idea  of  the  intensity  of 
the  emotion  which  is  surging  through  the  soul  of 
Ramsey.  For  during  these  recent  years  her  ex- 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  225 

travagances  have  made  no  effort  to  keep  pace  with 
the  accumulations  of  his  fortune.  She  has  lived,  it 
is  true,  without  thought  of  cost,  but  there  has  been 
nothing  of  the  attitude  of  the  parvenu  about  her. 
Her  jewels  are  comparatively  few,  and  positively 
modest.  But  for  years  she  has  desired  a  rope  of 
pearls  similar  to  this  one  which  she  has  just  pur- 
chased. Only  the  canniness  of  the  New  Englander 
has  prevented  her  from  acquiring  one  long  ago; 
that,  and  a  feeling  of  reluctance  to  spend  so  great 
a  sum  of  her  husband's  money.  But  now  that  she  is 
to  be  again  truly  the  wife  of  Willoughby,  and  he  is 
to  be  truly  her  husband,  the  imminent  granting  of 
one  happiness  seems  as  a  key  which  unlocks  the 
doors  to  other  gratifications. 

Of  course,  having  spent  the  huge  amount  of  eight 
hundred  thousand  francs,  she  is  visited,  as  soon  as 
she  leaves  the  jewelers,  by  qualms  of  conscience, 
pangs  of  remorse.  But  they  stay  with  her  only 
momentarily. 

For  is  she  not  the  bride — this  designation  of  her 
is  her  own,  not  ours;  romance,  which  touched  her 
twenty  years  ago,  has  come  back  to  embrace  her 
perfervidly — of  the  greatest  man  in  the  world?  Un- 
doubtedly she  is.  Can  she  go  to  him  less  wondrously 
bedecked  than  any  queen  in  Europe?  Must  she  not 
make  herself  more  beautiful,  more  desirable,  more 
worthy  of  his  love? 

It  seems  that  by  some  strange  alchemy  The  Mag- 
nificent has  undergone  a  marvelous  transformation. 
The  laboratory  of  a  woman's  love  contains  more 
potency  for  the  miraculous  than  the  workroom  of 
any  scientist  that  ever  lived. 

Shedding  her  brief  scruples,  then,  Ramsey  con- 


226  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

tinues  down  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  until  she  is  before 
the  building  that  houses  the  establishment  of  M. 
Maret.  She  enters,  through  a  narrow  hall-way,  a 
circular  open  court,  from  which  stair-ways  lead  to 
offices  on  the  upper  floors  of  the  building.  One  of 
these  she  mounts,  and  at  the  first  landing  she  opens 
a  door  which  bears  upon  its  glass  panels  the  name 
of  the  Sultan  of  Scent.  She  enters  a  plainly,  al- 
most severely  furnished  room,  whose  most  notice- 
able objects  are  highly  polished  cabinets  ranged 
along  the  walls.  In  these  are  the  treasures  of  the 
Prince  of  Parfumeurs. 

Her  entrance  causes  a  bell  to  ring,  and  from  an 
inner  room  comes  a  young  woman  dressed  in  se- 
verest black,  and  with  a  countenance  as  austere  as 
her  apparel.  However,  she  relaxes  at  sight  of  Ram- 
sey ;  she  even  smiles.  Monsieur,  it  would  appear,  is 
engaged  at  the  moment,  but  if  madame  will  have  the 
goodness  to  wait,  he  will  be  presently  disengaged. 
In  the  meantime,  perhaps  madame  would  like  to  test 
the  fragrance  of  some  of  his  more  recent  discoveries, 
not  yet  offered  to  the  public,  but  reserved  for  those 
endowed  by  God  with  the  quality  of  appreciation,  of 
whom  madame  is  one. 

From  the  cabinets  ranged  along  the  wall  the  young 
woman  abstracts  chaste  bottles  and  jars.  Watching 
her,  one  understands  that  the  sale  of  perfume  is  no 
vulgar  sordid  £rade,  but  the  practice  of  a  great  and 
noble  profession;  nay,  more,  an  art. 

For  these  precious  liquids  are  not  poured  out 
crudely  upon  a  handkerchief.  Rather,  the  moist- 
ened stopper  is  waved  delicately  in  the  air.  One 
does  not  smell  the  perfume;  one  permits  the  soul 
to  imbibe  its  fragrant  essence. 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  227 

Eamsey  is  coolly  unimpressed ;  she  has  been  here 
before.  True,  they  are  exquisite;  nowhere  in  the 
world,  she  concedes,  can  such  sweetness,  of  so  great 
delicacy  be  encountered.  But,  and  she  smiles,  these 
are  not  the  supreme  achievement  of  the  art  of  M. 
Maret.  The  French  woman  nods  appreciatively. 
She  will  hurry  Monsieur.  She  leaves  the  room,  a 
room  that  has  become  as  fragrant  as  the  dreams  of 
the  poets  of  Persia. 

The  little  prelude  to  the  drama,  or  comedy,  in 
which  Monsieur  Maret  plays  the  lead,  has  been  per- 
formed. In  a  moment  he  will  come  forth,  filled  with 
almost  violent  flatteries;  he  will  tell  madame  that 
what  she  has  been  permitted  to  breathe,  thus  far, 
are  perfumes  more  precious  than  any  yet  given  to 
mortal  nostril — be  sure  that  he  will  phrase  it  more 
daintily  than  this — to  enjoy.  But  he  will  perceive 
that  madame  is  one  of  the  elect,  a  connoisseur  par 
excellence.  For  her  he  will  produce  a  perfume,  to 
make  one  drop  of  which  ten  thousand  violets  have 
died,  a  perfume  that  not  only  has  not  yet  been  given 
to  the  world,  but  that  will  be  madame 's  exclusive 
property  if  she  will  honor  M.  Maret  by  its  accept- 
ance. 

Only,  the  curtain  rises,  the  star  enters,  and  the 
audience  has  gone.  For  Ramsey  has  picked  up, 
from  the  table  in  the  center  of  the  room,  an  after- 
noon newspaper  left  there  by  an  earlier  patron.  She 
reads  French  fluently.  Seeing  the  name  of  Wil- 
loughby  in  a  head-line  she  has  read  the  article  below 
it. 

Something  like  panic  attacks  her;  she  rises, 
clutching  the  crumpled  newspaper  in  her  hand,  and 
swiftly  leaves  the  room.  She  almost  runs  down  the 


228  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

stairs,  through  the  narrow  hall-way,  and  out  upon 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  There,  glancing  over  her 
shoulder  almost  as  though  she  fears  pursuit,  she 
walks  rapidly  toward  the  Place  Vendome.  Passing 
the  Ritz,  the  instinct  of  the  fugitive  impels  her  to 
enter  the  hotel.  In  a  waiting  room  she  sits  down 
and  stares  blankly  at  the  newspaper.  She  does  not, 
at  first,  see  the  printed  page;  instead  she  sees  the 
scene  of  this  morning.  She  sees  the  almost  grim 
countenance  of  Foyle;  she  feels  again  the  tension 
that  rendered  the  room  electric. 

Slowly  the  vision  passes,  and  her  mind  returns  to 
the  present.  Her  eyes  once  again  are  able  to  focus 
upon  the  print  before  them,  and  she  reads,  with 
careful  slowness,  the  news  article  which  has  sent 
her  fleeing  from  the  imminence  of  M.  Maret. 

It  begins  with  a  brief  cablegram  from  New  York 
which  states  that  Stephen  Cranahan  has  denied  the 
intention  imputed  to  him  by  his  partner,  Jameson 
Briggs  Willoughby,  of  retiring  from  the  leadership 
of  Cranahan  and  Company.  The  cablegram  is  fol- 
lowed by  a  few  brief  paragraphs  which  contain  the 
information  that  correspondents,  in  Paris,  of  Amer- 
ican newspapers,  have  received  word  from  The  Mag- 
nificent— it  is  interesting  to  note  that  the  French 
press  terms  him  "Le  Magnifique" — to  the  effect  that 
he  never  made  the  statement  attributed  to  him.  The 
account  goes  on  to  say  that  the  original  interview 
was  announced  by  M.  Foyle,  of  the  New  York 
Trumpet,  with  whom  it  has  been  impossible,  up  to 
the  present  moment,  to  get  in  touch. 

Ramsey  puts  the  paper  down;  she  begins  to  un- 
derstand why  Foyle 's  expression  was  odd,  why  there 
was  tension  in  the  air.  She  sees  clearly,  too,  the 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  229 

crude  bribe  wherewith  her  husband  sought  to  pla- 
cate Sam.  Her  lip  curls  as  she  reads  her  husband's 
transparency. 

Well,  once  before  Sam  Foyle  has  suffered;  he 
might  have  continued  as  Mayor  of  Oldport,  might 
have  progressed  from  that  office  to  the  governor- 
ship of  Massachusetts,  to  the  Senate Un- 
wittingly he  crossed  the  path  of  Jim,  lingered  there 
a  moment,  blocked  the  progress  of  The  Magnificent, 
and  was  hurled  from  the  road. 

She  sees  what  has  happened  now.  She  has  not 
lived  with  The  Magnificent  without  learning  some- 
thing of  his  methods.  The  Magnificent  has  com- 
mitted an  indiscretion;  immediately  he  has  denied 
its  commission.  Immediately,  also,  he  has  tried  to 
smooth  over  the  matter  with  the  person  whom  he 
has  injured. 

She  wonders  if  Foyle  has  accepted  the  offered 
bribe.  But  she  knows,  even  as  she  walks  to  the 
telephone,  that  Sam  Foyle  has  rejected  the  manag- 
ing editorship  of  the  Trumpet.  And  a  few  words 
with  the  man  who  answers  the  telephone  in  the  Paris 
office  of  the  Trumpet  confirms  her  knowledge.  Mr. 
Foyle  has  visited  the  office  this  morning.  He  has 
cabled  New  York,  resigning  his  position.  He  has 
packed  his  personal  effects  and  has  taken  them  from 
the  office.  His  address?  On  the  Rue  St.  Honore. 

It  is  a  brief  walk  to  Foyle 's  lodgings,  and  Ramsey 
hurries  there.  She  does  not  glance  over  her  shoul- 
der now,  for  the  indescribable  unreasonable  feeling 
of  panic  that  possessed  her  in  the  reception  room  of 
M.  Maret  is  gone ;  it  is  replaced  by  honest  anger. 

The  pretty  milliner  on  the  ground  floor  scents 
romance.  She  is  waiting  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 


230  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

when  Ramsey,  having  knocked  unavailingly  upon 
the  door  of  Foyle 's  apartment,  descends.  The  pretty 
milliner  emerges  from  her  shop. 

Madame  inquires  for  M.  Foyle?  Ah,  it  is  of  a 
strangeness.  M.  Foyle  came  home  an  hour  or  two 
ago ;  he  packed  a  bag ;  he  paid  his  rent  until  the  end 
of  the  month.  He  said  that  he  would  not  be  back. 
The  pretty  milliner  eyes  appreciatively  the  pallor 
that  comes  to  Ramsey's  cheeks.  Of  course  M.  Foyle 
has  been  of  a  great  discreetness,  but  what  man  is 
there  into  whose  life  comes  no  woman? 

But  her  eager  volubility  brings  no  response  from 
Ramsey.  The  milliner  spends  the  rest  of  the  after- 
noon denouncing  the  coldness  of  American  women. 
Had  a  French  woman's  lover  departed  from  her 
without  warning,  hysteria  at  least  would  have  been 
in  proper  order.  Bah!  They  do  not  deserve  men, 
these  American  women.  But  who  would  have 
thought  it,  that  M.  Foyle  could  have  been  so  se- 
cretive 1  Where  did  they  hold  their  rendezvous? 

The  walk  of  Ramsey  is  not  hurried  as  she  returns 
to  the  Meurice.  She  is  deliberate;  she  is  equally 
deliberate  as  she  instructs  her  maid  to  pack  trunks, 
as  she  telephones  to  the  office  down-stairs  to  procure 
her  accommodations  on  the  first  train  de  luxe  for 
Rome.  She  is  quite  calm  as  she  writes  a  brief  note 
to  her  husband. 

"Dear  Jim:  A  married  couple  can  have  only  one 
honeymoon.  We  had  ours  twenty  years  ago.  After 
twenty  years  we  know  each  other  too  well.  I  do  not 
criticize  what  you  have  done  to  Sam.  I  only  hope 
that  some  day  you  may  understand. ' ' 

She  signs  her  name  and  later  gives  it  to  the  clerk 
down-stairs  to  be  delivered  to  The  Magnificent  when 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  231 

he  returns  from  London.  A  little  later  she  boards 
the  train.  She  can  never  understand  the  intricacies 
of  high  finance,  the  duties  which  devolve  upon  God's 
stewards  of  the  earth,  duties  which  compel  them  to 
disregard  the  one  in  favor  of  the  many.  Too,  she  is 
one  of  those  who  think  that  natural  or  economic 
laws  cause  financial  panics ;  she  does  not  understand 
that  even  stewards  may  quarrel,  and  that  the  shock 
of  their  combat  may  wreck  the  houses  painfully 
erected  by  those  who  are  not  stewards,  but  merely 
pygmy  people. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

The  lush  years  end ;  the  prodigalities  of  youth  are 
superseded  by  the  conservatism  of  middle  life.  Ma- 
turity has  come  upon  us  in  the  night,  while  we  slum- 
bered away  the  effects  of  youth's  debaucheries. 
Kiotously  we  have  lived  through  the  eighties  and 
nineties  and,  barring  the  slight  indigestion  of  1907, 
through  almost  a  decade  and  a  half  of  the  twentieth 
century. 

A  slight  headache  induces  a  philosophic  moment. 
We  have  eaten  of  life  so  heartily  that  even  pepsin 
cannot  entirely  remove  discomfort.  We  begin  to 
ask  questions. 

What  does  bigness  prove!  Is  happiness  meas- 
ured by  our  possessions!  What  is  success!  What 
is  failure!  Has  the  progress  of  invention  advanced 
the  cause  of  human  happiness!  Does  speed  mean 
joy!  Was  the  bicycle  better  than  the  horse!  Is  the 
motor  car  better  than  the  buggy  ?  What  do  we  mean 
by  "better",  anyway! 

Vaguely,  in  this  philosophic  moment,  trying  to 
discover  the  cause  of  a  vague  ache  that  attacks  us, 
we  search  for  panaceas.  We,  who  for  a  century  or 
more  have  not  hesitated  to  diagnose  the  ailments  of 
the  rest  of  the  world,  and  offer  ourselves  as  models 
the  following  of  which  will  assure  perfect  health, 
discover  that  we  are  not  in  the  best  of  condition. 

We  turn  to  the  Federal  Government,  forgetful  of 
the  state  pride  that  formerly  made  us  jealous  of  the 

233 


234  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

encroachments  of  Washington.  It  might  be  that  we 
have  mistaken  elephantiasis  for  development,  but 
this  does  not  occur  to  us. 

"It  don't  seem  sensible  to  come  to  you,  Doctor," 
we  say,  "but  the  wife  is  kinda  worried  about  me." 

"Your  color  seems  good,"  says  the  doctor. 
"How's  the  appetite?" 

"Kinda  peaked,"  we  reply.  "All  we  had  for 
breakfast  was  some  fruit,  and  cereal,  and  a  mess  of 
buckwheat  cakes,  and  maybe  a  couple  of  eggs,  with 
some  bacon  on  the  side,  and  four  or  five  cups  of 
coffee;  and  when  the  wife  brought  in  a  nice  little 
steak,  we  couldn't  touch  it." 

The  doctor  feels  our  pulse.  '  *  How  do  you  sleep  ? ' ' 
he  asks. 

"Rotten,"  we  exclaim.  "Only  got  twelve  hours 
last  night,  and  we're  used  to  fifteen." 

The  doctor  looks  more  solemn.  "That's  bad,"  he 
says.  "How  about  exercise?" 

"Drove  a  hundred  and  forty  miles  yesterday, 
without  our  chauffeur  stopping  once,  except  when 
we  ran  into  a  hay  wagon,  and  he  had  to  change  a 
wheel, ' '  we  answer  proudly. 

The  doctor  orders  us  to  put  out  our  tongue. 
"H'm.  Spotty,"  he  declares.  "I  guess  what  you 
need  is  a  good  big  dose  of  castor  oil." 

We  look  at  him;  doesn't  he  understand  that  we 
are  able  and  willing  to  pay  any  sort  of  a  fancy  fee? 
Why,  anybody  could  prescribe  castor  oil.  And  any- 
body could  say  what  he's  saying  now.  Telling  us 
to  quit  riding,  and  walk ;  to  limit  ourselves  to  fruit 
and  toast  and  warm  water  for  breakfast.  Out  upon 
such  an  old-fashioned  physician ! 

We  discharge  him;  we  engage  a  new  medical  ad- 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  235 

viser.  An  alert  up-and-coming  young  fellow,  who 
advises  operations.  He  removes  our  appendix,  ex- 
plores our  gall  bladder  with  keen  and  shiny  instru- 
ments, but  when  he  offers  to  cut  open  the  back  of 
our  heads,  we  turn  away  from  him. 

There's  another  new  man  down  the  street;  he 
rips  the  clothes  off  you  and  puts  you  on  a  table,  and 
takes  you  by  the  ears  and  yanks  you  forward  and 
back  and  sideways;  he  kneels  on  your  spine  and 
jumps  on  your  neck.  They  say  he's  done  some  won- 
derful things.  Let's  try  him.  We  do  so,  and  we  feel 
worse  when  he  has  finished  than  before  we  went  to 
him. 

Our  dentist  extracts  all  our  teeth;  you  know  it's 
wonderful  the  way  they've  discovered  that  the  seat 
of  all  illness  lies  in  the  gums.  Our  oculist  operates 
cheerily  upon  our  eyes.  You  know,  every  disease 
is  due  to  trouble  in  the  eyes.  An  orthopedic  surgeon 
puts  our  feet  in  plaster  casts.  You  know,  falling 
arches  upset  the  whole  system.  Our  throat  special- 
ist eyes  us  pityingly.  No  wonder,  he  tells  us,  that 
we  feel  badly.  We  have  the  finest  collection  of  ade- 
noids he  ever  looked  at,  and  modern  science  has 
proved  conclusively  that  one  little  adenoid  is  more 
dangerous  than  a  swamp  full  of  malarial  mos- 
quitoes. Snip,  snip,  go  the  scissors  and  the  ade- 
noids are  gone. 

Have  you  heard  about  the  new  dietician?  My 
dear,  you  must  go  to  him;  he's  marvelous.  If  you'll 
just  follow  his  advice  and  measure  your  kilowatts 
and  proteids  and  amperes  and  vitamines,  and  mix 
them  up  the  way  he  tells  you,  you'll  be  surprised. 

We  do  as  he  tells  us,  but  somehow  we  aren't  sur- 
prised. For  we  are  beginning  to  believe  that  our 


286  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

case  is  hopeless.  In  the  height  of  our  powers,  we 
have  become  an  interesting  neurasthenic.  We  have 
new  symptoms  every  day,  and  gosh,  how  we  enjoy 
them! 

Suddenly  we  begin  to  realize  that  if  we  cannot 
help  ourselves,  we  cannot  be  helped.  We  find  that 
no  matter  how  often  we  change  our  physicians  in 
the  Capitol  at  Washington,  disease  remains.  We 
fume,  we  worry,  we  are  fretful.  Mr.  Taf t  gives  way 
to  Mr.  Wilson.  Teddy  retires  to  his  tent.  Life  be- 
comes more  complicated  every  moment. 

We  ought  to  be  happy,  but  we  are  not.  We  raise 
more  things  to  eat  and  wear  than  anyone  else,  and 
yet  we  are  hungry  and  naked.  We  build  more 
houses  than  anyone  else,  and  yet  we  are  homeless. 
We  have  more  money  than  anyone  else,  and  yet  we 
are  poor.  Vaguely  we  begin  to  comprehend  that  our 
ailments  have  their  derivation  in  spiritual,  not  ma- 
terial sources.  Yet  where  shall  we  find  a  doctor  to 
minister  to  the  spirit? 

Thank  God  for  one  thing!  We  have  no  wars 
upon  our  hands,  and  can  foresee  none.  It  is  possi- 
ble, of  course,  that  we  may  have  to  shoot  a  few 
greasers  across  the  Eio  Grande,  but  you  wouldn't 
call  that  a  war.  We  were  there  before,  you  know, 
in  '48,  and,  being  familiar  with  the  road,  travel  will 
be  even  simpler  this  time. 

Meantime,  while  waiting  for  our  general  health  to 
improve,  let's  go  to  the  movies. 

Suddenly  the  earth  shakes  in  Europe.  The  wires 
tell  us  the  news,  and  we  thrill  with  excitement.  Of 
course,  it  can't  last  long,  this  war;  they  haven't 
money  enough  to  fight  for  more  than  six  months; 
but  it  is  going  to  be  tremendous  while  it  does  last. 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  237 

Business,  which  has  been  poor,  due  to  our  com- 
plicated and  mysterious  ailments,  becomes  bad.  But 
the  word  of  hope  is  preached:  Europe,  unable, 
while  warring,  to  produce  for  her  own  needs,  must 
turn  to  us  to  buy. 

A  veil,  thrown  across  the  struggling  legions,  is 
lifted.  We  thought  that  the  Belgians  were  holding 
the  Germans,  but  the  Prussian  horde  is  on  the  edge 
of  Paris.  It  lifts  higher;  Joffre  has  stopped  them 
at  the  Marne. 

Behold  The  Magnificent  in  his  office.  He  is  walk- 
ing up  and  down  the  magnificently  furnished  room, 
that  holds,  as  its  sole  memory  of  the  over-lord  who 
abdicated  four  years  ago,  a  bust  of  him  done  by 
Rodin.  From  his  eyrie  high  up  on  the  twentieth 
floor,  he  sees  the  harbor  and  the  bay  crowded  with 
alien  shipping  which  dares  not  go  out  upon  the  high 
seas  until  the  German  fleet  has  been  destroyed,  or 
until  England  has  yielded  the  mastery  of  the  ocean. 

He  owns  many  of  these  ships,  though  they  fly  a 
foreign  flag.  It  is  cheaper  to  engage  an  European 
crew  than  an  American.  In  the  name  of  cheap  costs 
we  have  tossed  away  the  sovereignty  of  the  seas  that 
was  ours  after  the  Civil  War. 

He  can  see  the  Jersey  shore,  bulking  with  fac- 
tories and  storehouses  that  belong  to  him.  From 
another  window  he  can  look  across  the  East  River 
upon  lands  that  are  his.  Upon  the  walls  are  maps 
of  railroads,  ranches,  and  mines  that  he  owns.  Also, 
in  his  desk  are  the  names  of  scores,  aye  hundreds, 
of  business  and  financial  institutions  that  he  con- 
trols. 

In  the  evening  paper  spread  out  upon  his  desk 
are  the  names  of  the  King  of  England — The  Mag- 


238  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

nificent  has  dined  with  him;  of  the  Kaiser — The 
Magnificent  has  cruised  aboard  his  yacht;  of  the 
Premier  of  France — The  Magnificent  has  visited  at 
his  home;  of  the  King  of  the  Belgians — The  Mag- 
nificent has  been  hunting  with  him;  of  the  Czar  of 
All  the  Russias — The  Magnificent  has  been  enter- 
tained at  one  of  his  palaces;  of  the  Mikado  of 
Japan — The  Magnificent  has  a  decoration  bestowed 
upon  him  by  that  potentate ;  of  Theodore  Eoosevelt 
— the  ex-president  has  more  than  once  asked  the 
friendly  advice  of  The  Magnificent. 

Statesmen,  soldiers,  and  financiers;  the  news- 
paper is  crowded  with  their  names,  and  there  is  not 
one  who  has  not  called  The  Magnificent  friend. 

But  neither  wealth  nor  friends  can  aid  him  now, 
as,  pale,  sunken-eyed,  he  paces  the  floor.  Ever  and 
again  secretaries  enter  the  room,  bearing  cable- 
grams from  the  great  of  the  world.  Perfunctorily 
he  reads  them ;  almost  carelessly  he  decides  matters 
of  tremendous  moment.  And  then  comes  a  secretary 
bearing  the  message  that  for  three  dreadful  weeks 
he  has  been  awaiting.  For  all  his  power  has  been 
unable  to  secure  word  of  Ramsey. 

He  has  not  seen  her  since  that  breakfast  in  Paris. 
He  has  long  since  given  up  all  hope  of  reconciliation. 
But  the  absence  of  hope  but  makes  his  love  for  her 
grow  greater  with  each  passing  hour.  There  has 
been  no  divorce ;  there  will  be  none,  because  of  the 
boys.  But  they  are  strangers,  holding  no  communi- 
cation save  through  their  attorneys. 

And  now  he  receives  the  first  direct  word  that  he 
has  had  from  her  since  he  found,  four  years  ago,  the 
note  that  shattered  the  dream  that  he  had  had.  He 
can  tell,  before  he  accepts  the  paper  from  the  secre- 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  239 

tary,  that  the  message  is  from  Eamsey,  and  that  it 
is  good  news.  For  the  tears  are  frankly  streaming 
down  the  face  of  the  young  man,  and  a  child  could 
tell  that  they  are  tears  of  joy.  It  is  worth  while 
pondering  the  significance  of  these  secretarial  tears. 
The  Magnificent  is  able  to  attract  affection  from 
his  subordinates,  it  seems. 

He  reads  the  message.  It  tells  him  that  Ramsey, 
in  Belgium  when  the  war  broke  out,  has  escaped,  via 
Holland,  to  England.  She  is  leaving  for  France  the 
next  day,  where  she  is  to  enter  the  French  hospital 
service. 

The  secretary  tip-toes  from  the  room.  For 
already  the  world  is  filled  with  rumors  of  atrocities. 
One  may  discredit  them,  but  one  is  sick  with  horror 
at  the  thought  of  one's  womankind  in  the  path  of 
the  invader.  As  the  door  closes  upon  the  young 
man,  The  Magnificent  leans  forward,  until  his  face 
is  hidden  in  a  mass  of  papers  upon  his  desk.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  adult  life  he  weeps. 

Eecovering  at  length,  he  presses  a  bell  which 
brings  a  secretary  to  his  side.  He  dictates  a  cable- 
gram to  Eamsey,  telling  her  that  as  soon  as  it  is 
humanly  possible  he  will  join  her  in  France,  telling 
her  also  something  of  the  agony  he  has  undergone 
and  the  joy  that  now  is  his.  Then  he  dictates  tele- 
grams to  French  officials  here  and  abroad.  He  pre- 
sents the  French  nation  with  ten  million  dollars  for 
the  foundation  and  equipment  of  hospitals.  He 
makes  a  similar  present  to  the  British  Government. 
Up  to  this  moment  he  has  tried  to  be  neutral;  but 
Eamsey  has  taken  sides,  in  a  way,  and  he  stands 
with  his  wife. 

He  stays  late  at  his  offices  that  night.    He  devotes 


240  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

himself  to  the  direction  of  a  thousand  tasks  that 
have  needed  performance,  but  that  worry  concern- 
ing Eamsey  has  prevented  him  from  attending  to. 
It  is  after  mid-night  when  he  arrives  at  his  home  on 
Fifth  Avenue. 

The  great  mansion,  lacking  a  mistress,  has  be- 
come a  bachelor  establishment,  used  almost  solely 
by  The  Magnificent.  For  Junior  and  Robert  are 
still  at  college,  and  are  away  during  the  university 
term.  Their  vacation  periods  are  spent  usually  in 
Europe  with  their  mother,  although  this  year  cer- 
tain important  golf  tournaments  have  kept  them  on 
this  side  of  the  Atlantic. 

The  Magnificent  has  not  seen  either  of  them  since 
the  outbreak  of  the  European  war,  although  each  of 
them  has  daily  telephoned  the  office  from  Newport 
or  Manchester  or  Tuxedo,  to  make  inquiries  con- 
cerning their  mother.  Only  the  fact  that  sailings 
of  the  ocean  liners  have  been  so  uncertain,  and 
passage  so  difficult  to  obtain,  has  prevented  them 
from  going  to  Europe  in  search  of  their  mother. 
Such  difficulties  could  have  been  overcome  by  The 
Magnificent,  but  he  has  pointed  out  to  them,  over 
the  telephone,  that  it  would  be  silly  to  go  to  France 
when  Ramsey  might  be  in  Russia,  or  to  England 
when  she  might  be  in  Italy.  He  has  promised  that 
as  soon  as  word  is  received  from  her,  one  or  both  of 
the  boys  may  attempt  to  join  her. 

So,  expecting  to  enter  a  home  deserted  save  for 
silent  servants,  he  is  amazed  to  hear  sounds  of 
revelry  as  he  opens  the  front  door.  His  hours  are 
so  uncertain  that  he  carries  a  latch-key  rather  than 
keep  a  servant  in  attendance  on  the  door  bell  all 
night. 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  241 

The  noise  seems  to  come  from  the  great  dining- 
room,  and  his  brows,  shaggy  gray  they  are  now, 
hump  up  in  two  mounds,  as  he  walks  down  the  hall. 
The  door  of  the  dining-room  is  closed,  but  not 
tightly.  He  opens  it,  and  a  young  woman  screams 
at  sight  of  him. 

In  her  way  she  is  attractive.  Her  way  is  like  that 
of  Jennie  Smollen,  dead  these  twenty-four  years. 
She  is  vital,  exuding  health  and  animal  spirits.  One 
not  too  insistent  on  refinement  of  feature  might  term 
her  beautiful. 

She  is  seated  on  the  knees  of  Junior.  Her  right 
arm  is  about  the  young  man's  neck;  her  left  hand 
holds  high  a  glass  of  champagne.  The  uncorked 
bottles  on  the  table  indicate  the  nature  of  the  liquid. 
Junior's  left  arm  is  about  the  lady's  waist,  and  his 
right  hand  holds  a  glass  of  wine. 

Both  glasses  are  set  upon  the  table  as  The  Mag- 
nificent enters.  The  girl  endeavors  to  slip  from  the 
knees  of  Junior.  But  the  young  man,  although  his 
face  crimsons  a  deeper  shade  than  the  champagne 
has  given  it,  retains  his  clasp  upon  the  lithe  waist. 

He  hiccoughs.  "Stick  around,  Jennie,"  he  says. 
"Dad's  a  good  scout.  He's  been  around  himself." 

Fresh  from  tears,  The  Magnificent  turns  to  wrath. 
Before  his  furious  gaze  the  girl  whitens.  Before  it 
Junior's  clasp  relaxes.  The  girl  slips  to  the  floor. 
The  Magnificent  looks  from  her  to  the  door.  She 
sidles  from  the  room. 

"Here,  you  can't  leave,  Jennie,"  says  Junior. 

"I  think  the  young  lady  can  find  her  way  around 
the  streets  by  herself,"  says  The  Magnificent  icily. 

The  boy  leaps  to  his  feet.  He  gets  the  implication 
in  his  father's  words. 


242  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

"Take  that  back,"  he  cries. 

The  Magnificent  stares  at  him.  "Don't  use  that 
tone  with  me, ' '  he  says. 

"Change  your  tone,  then,"  says  Junior. 
"Jennie's  a  good  girl." 

The  Magnificent  sneers.  "Standards  of  goodness 
have  changed  since  I  was  young." 

"The  hell  they  have,"  retorts  Junior.  "I've 
heard  some  tales  about  you  and  a  girl  in  Oldport — 
her  name  was  Jennie,  too.  And  it  isn't  so  long  ago 
that  you  stole  Cranahan's  girl  away  from  him. 
Why,  Jennie  here,  is  ten  times  as  good  as  the  women 
you've  played  around  with." 

"Send  that  girl  home,  and  go  to  bed!  I'll  talk 
to  you  in  the  morning,  you  drunken  dog, ' '  cries  The 
Magnificent. 

The  girl  is  lingering  in  the  doorway.  "We've 
only  had  one  glass,"  she  says. 

Rage  surges  up  in  The  Magnificent 's  throat.  "I 
told  you  to  go  home, ' '  he  says. 

"This  is  her  home,"  says  Junior.  "We  were 
married  to-day." 

For  a  moment  The  Magnificent  is  speechless. 
Then  he  turns  upon  the  girl.  "I  suppose  you  think 
I'll  give  you  a  million  to  get  rid  of  you,"  he  sneers. 

Junior  walks  past  his  father  to  his  wife.  If  the 
girl,  in  defending  the  boy,  has  not  told  the  exact 
truth  about  the  quantity  of  champagne  they  have 
drunk,  Junior's  manner  now  would  tend  to  support 
her  statement.  For  his  voice  is  clear  and  his  walk 
is  steady. 

"Come  on,  Jennie,"  he  says. 

Silently  they  leave  the  house,  the  Magnificent 
making  no  effort  to  detain  them.  Oddly,  the  only 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  243 

feeling  that  he  has  is  one  of  extreme  age.  He  is 
only  forty-nine,  yet  to-night,  somehow,  he  feels 
ninety.  For  while  he  has  been  piling  up  his  fortune, 
he  has  grown  away  from  his  family.  He  and  they 
are  strangers.  The  sons  of  his  body  are  unfamiliar ; 
their  ways  are  strange  and  unknown  to  him. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

Kings,  emperors,  popes,  and  corner  grocerymen 
pass  away,  and  the  world  goes  on.  The  tide  of  life 
ever  rises ;  Canute  would  have  been  as  futile  with  a 
bucket  as  he  was  with  a  broom.  But  Nature  de- 
signed us  wisely  for  her  purposes.  Each  man  is 
monarch  of  himself;  he  is  locked  securely  behind 
boundaries  of  flesh  and  bone,  through  which  the  rest 
of  the  world  may  never  penetrate.  And  so,  aloof 
and  remote,  he  magnifies  his  own  importance.  And, 
this  is  well,  for  if  the  universe  could  get  inside  his 
skull  and  prove  to  him  his  own  insignificance,  he 
would  abdicate,  would  not  bother  with  the  piffling 
business  of  living. 

How  shall  I  make  him  endure  himself?  Nature 
answered  her  own  question.  She  gave  him  vanity, 
and  so  he  has  increased  and  multiplied,  and  endured, 
and  gained  dominion  over  the  lands  and  the  beasts 
thereof,  the  sea  and  its  creatures,  the  air  and  its 
denizens.  He  is  ruler  of  everything  except  himself. 

The  Magnificent  has  passed  a  busy  week  since  he 
received  the  news  of  Ramsey's  safety  and  of 
Junior's  marriage.  He  has  spent  eighteen  hours  a 
day  in  his  office,  and  his  few  hours  of  rest  have  been 
broken  by  telephone  calls,  by  visits  from  persons 
and  personages  of  importance. 

For  America  is  already  rallying  from  the  stu- 
pendous blow  that,  struck  full  at  the  heart  of 
Europe,  has  shaken  equilibrium  here.  The  Mag- 

245 


246  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

nificent  has  never  been  so  important  as  he  is  now, 
as  he  restores  balance  to  the  nation. 

Supplies  of  all  sorts ;  munitions ;  ships ;  Europe  is 
already  crying  for  them,  and  America,  under  The 
Magnificent 's  leadership,  is  answering  her  cry.  The 
exodus  from  the  farm  to  the  factory  has  been 
steadily  increasing  during  the  past  few  decades,  but 
now  the  city-bound  stream  of  humanity  has  become 
a  flood.  Later  on  that  flood  may  drown  us,  but  we 
do  not  think  of  that  now. 

His  mind  at  ease  about  Ramsey,  The  Magnificent 
is  directing  all  his  energies  toward  the  further  en- 
trenchment of  his  position  as  America's  leading 
capitalist.  All  the  work  that  he  has  done  in  the 
past  years  seems  as  nothing  to  the  incredible  labors 
that  he  undergoes  now.  Although  he  will  not  admit 
it  even  to  himself,  it  will  be  impossible  for  him  to  go 
to  France  and  see  Ramsey  for  months  to  come, 
unless  it  becomes  necessary  for  him  to  hold  confer- 
ences in  Europe,  with  the  governmental  and  finan- 
cial leaders  of  the  Allied  nations. 

For  he  cannot  be  spared  from  his  tasks  here.  It 
does  not  occur  to  him  that  unquestionably  Crana- 
han,  now  a  querulous  old  invalid,  often  told  his 
medical  advisers  that  his  withdrawal  from  activity 
would  bring  desolation  to  the  country.  It  does  not 
occur  to  him  that  since  the  beginning  of  time  men 
have  magnified  their  own  importance  until  they  have 
shed  tears  of  pity  at  thought  of  what  would  over- 
come the  world  when  death  should  claim  them.  He 
does  not  remember  that  he  was  ready  to  step  into 
Cranahan's  shoes  long  before  the  feet  of  his 
predecessor  had  been  ready  to  kick  them  off.  He 
does  not  realize  that  in  his  own  office  are  a  dozen 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  247 

men  who  look  at  him  with  disgusted  envy,  wondering 
when  he  will  have  the  grace  to  put  on  carpet  slip- 
pers, and  permit  a  better  man  to  lace  on  his  boots. 
He  believes,  with  all  his  heart,  that  not  merely  is 
the  nation  better  off  with  him  at  the  head  of  its 
financial  affairs  than  it  would  be  with  another  man, 
but  that,  with  anyone  else  in  his  place,  chaos  would 
descend  upon  his  native  land. 

So  Eamsey  recedes  farther  and  farther  into  the 
background.  True,  he  wept  with  joy  a  week  ago  at 
news  of  her  escape  from  Belgium.  In  that  moment 
of  his  tears  nothing  seemed  of  importance  save  his 
wife.  But  Ramsey  is  safe;  at  least  it  is  to  be  pre- 
sumed that  hospitals  will  be  safe.  But  it  is  not  to  be 
presumed  that  the  great  financial  structure  of  which 
he  is  the  key-stone  is  safe.  He  was  able  to  oust 
Cranahan;  who  may  be  able  to  oust  him? 

But  this  is  a  question  that  he  never  puts  to  him- 
self. He  does  not  know  that  it  is  in  his  mind.  A 
certain  early  reluctance  to  examine  into  his  own 
motives  has  solidified  into  habit.  A  healthy  conceit 
has  grown  into  a  colossal  vanity.  Long  ago  he  has 
come  to  regard  himself  as  kings,  in  the  older  days, 
regarded  themselves.  His  is  a  task,  and  if  one 
should  ask  him  the  nature  of  that  task,  he  would  be 
so  amazed  at  one's  ignorance  that  it  would  not  enter 
his  mind  that  he  himself  could  not  answer  the 
question. 

True,  on  numberless  occasions,  addressing  vari- 
ous business  groups,  he  has  spoken  of  the  great 
responsibilities  which  devolve  upon  the  possessor 
of  wealth,  but  he  has  never  defined  those  responsi- 
bilities. He  has  talked  of  duty,  but  has  never  made 
that  duty  clear.  He  has  even  told  a  class  of  college 


248  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

graduates  that  at  times  the  weight  of  his  burden 
seems  unendurable,  but  he  would  think  you  a  mad- 
man if  you  asked  him  why  he  continued  to  carry  it. 

But  he  shakes  it  from  his  shoulders  for  a  moment 
now.  A  clerk  brings  him  in  word  that  Mrs.  Jameson 
Willoughby,  Jr.,  is  waiting  in  an  ante-room.  The 
Magnificent  tells  the  clerk  to  show  her  in.  As  he 
watches  the  clerk  depart  his  upper  lip  grows  thin- 
ner, and  his  lower  lip  protrudes  stubbornly.  He 
has  not  seen  Junior  or  Junior's  bride  since  they  left 
the  dining-room  of  his  Avenue  home  a  week  ago. 
But  he  has  had  detectives,  retained  by  his  lawyers, 
investigate  the  young  woman.  They  have  found 
nothing  against  her ;  except  the  fact  that  she  comes 
of  an  obscure  family,  and  that  she  has  been  in  the 
chorus  of  a  musical  comedy.  In  fact,  she  has  not 
left  the  cast  of  the  play.  The  Magnificent  smiled 
grimly  when  he  was  told  this.  The  girl,  then,  did 
not  count  too  greatly  on  the  generosity  of  her 
father-in-law. 

The  Magnificent  has  received  no  word  from 
Junior.  But  he  has  ordered  his  secretary  to  discon- 
tinue the  young  man's  allowance.  It  is  a  generous 
allowance,  yet  always  drawn  upon  in  advance.  The 
father  knows  well  that  the  son's  supply  of  ready 
cash  must  be  very  low.  Junior  will  swallow  his 
pride  when  necessity  arises. 

He  has  been  gratified  that  the  young  couple  have 
kept  their  marriage  secret.  The  harshness  of  his 
thoughts  concerning  Junior  is  somewhat  mitigated 
by  this  fact. 

He  has  waited  for  a  week  before  sending  for  the 
girl.  Then,  hoping  that  the  first  flush  of  passion 
might  be  cooled,  he  has  had  an  emissary,  while 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  249 

Junior  was  out,  visit  her  in  the  quiet  hotel  where 
she  and  Junior  are  staying.  For  a  moment  the 
almost  cruel  obstinacy  in  his  expression  is  replaced 
by  triumphant  gratification.  The  young  lady  knows 
on  which  side  her  bread  is  buttered.  The  smile 
vanishes  as  she  enters  his  private  office. 

He  rises  and  with  cold  courtesy  offers  her  a 
chair. 

"I'll  stand,  if  you  don't  mind,"  she  tells  him. 

He  nods  and  himself  remains  standing. 

"We  won't  waste  time,  young  woman,"  he  says. 
"You  have  good  sense;  I  can  tell  that  from  looking 
at  you.  You  didn't  come  here  expecting  my  bless- 
ing. But  you  came;  that  means  you're  prepared  to 
tajjj  business.  Now,  I  expect  to  live  a  long  time. 
My  doctors  tell  me  that  my  health  is  good.  I  have 
what  the  insurance  men  term  a  long  life  expectation. 

"Not  that  I  got  you  here  to  listen  to  an  elderly 
man's  boastings  regarding  his  health."  He  smiles 
in  somewhat  wintry  fashion.  "I  got  you  here  to 
talk  business." 

"Then  talk  it,"  she  suggests. 

A  light  of  approval  shines  in  his  green  eyes.  She 
has  courage,  this  girl.  If  she  only  had  breeding  and 
family She  is  goodlooking,  too.  For  a  mo- 
ment his  eyes  blur;  he  seems  to  see  before  him  the 
vital  face  and  figure  of  Jennie  Smollen,  so  like  this 
girl  who  is  his  son's  wife.  Then  the  vision  passes, 
and  his  eyes  are  hard  again.  He  wasn't  fool  enough 
to  marry  a  girl  whose  sole  attraction  was  her  body ; 
why  did  he  breed  a  fool? 

"All  right;  I'll  make  it  brief,"  he  retorts.  "If 
you  will  agree  to  divorce  my  son,  or  permit  him  to 
get  a  divorce,  I'll  pay  you  one  hundred  thousand 


250  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

dollars.  If  you  don't  agree  I  give  you  my  word 
that  during  my  lifetime — and  I've  told  you  that  I 
expect  to  live  a  long  time — my  son  will  not  receive 
from  me,  directly  or  indirectly,  one  penny.  I  will 
engage  that  neither  his  mother  nor  his  brother  will 
contribute  anything  to  his  support." 

"He  can  get  a  job,  can't  he?"  she  asks. 

The  Magnificent  smiles.  "Answer  that  yourself," 
he  advises.  ' '  What  can  he  do  I " 

The  girl  stares  at  him.  In  her  eyes,  big  and  black 
and  gleaming,  he  seems  to  read  contempt.  He 
flushes  slightly. 

"Take  it  or  leave  it,"  he  tells  her.  "But  before 
you  make  up  your  mind  I  'd  like  you  to  think  it  over. 
I  suppose  that  you  expected  more.  Be  assured  that 
you're  mistaken." 

She  has  been  twisting  a  vanity  bag  in  her  fingers, 
with  movements  that  suggest  an  indecision  hard  to 
credit  to  one  so  vital.  Now  she  looks  up  again  and 
her  eyes,  that  gleamed  so  coldly  as  his  own  a  mo- 
ment ago,  seem  softened. 

"It's  all  a  matter  of  money  to  you,  isn't  it?"  she 
asks. 

"Exactly  as  it  is  to  you.  But  simply  because 
this  is  a  financial  transaction,  don't  think  that  the 
amount  is  debatable." 

"Suppose  that  I  should  tell  you  that  I  truly  love 
Junior?"  she  asks. 

"I  should  remind  you,"  he  replies,  "that  one 
hundred  thousand  dollars  ought  to  heal  the  most 
badly  broken  heart. ' ' 

The  blur,  or  film,  leaves  her  eyes;  they  shine 
coldly  again.  "I  suppose  you  have  the  check  here," 
she  says. 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  251 

"A  check  for  ten  thousand;  the  balance  will  be 
yours  when  the  divorce  is  secured.  You  can  see  my 
lawyers  at  any  time  with  regard  to  the  details." 

"Let  me  have  the  check,"  she  says. 

He  takes  it  from  his  desk  and  offers  it  to  her ;  she 
accepts  it;  she  leaves  the  office  without  another 
word;  The  Magnificent  turns  back  to  his  mo- 
mentarily interrupted  labors. 

They  are  interrupted  again  the  next  day.  Junior, 
hot  with  anger,  is  admitted  to  the  presence  of  his 
father.  He  has  a  note  in  his  pocket ;  he  produces  it 
and  almost  waves  it  in  his  father's  face. 

"What  the  hell  have  you  done?"  he  cries. 

"Sit  down,"  says  The  Magnificent  calmly.  "And 
please  do  not  use  profane  language.  Remember 
that  I  am  your  father." 

"Damn  it,  don't  remind  me  of  it!  As  if  I  could 
help  it;  as  if  I  wouldn't  rather  be  anyone's  son, 
rather  than  yours!  What  have  you  done  with 
Jennie?" 

"Done  what  you  should  have  done,  what  you 
would  have  done,  if  you  hadn't  been  a  jackass," 
replies  the  father. 

"What  do  you  mean  I"  demands  Junior. 

"I  bought  her,  that's  what  I  mean.  If  you'd  had 
sense  enough  to  know  that  she  was  for  sale — " 

He  stops,  made  to  do  so  by  the  expression  in 
Junior's  eyes.  "My  God,"  says  the  boy,  "I  knew 
that  you  were  low,  but  not  so  low  as  this.  Where  is 


His  father  is  calm;  of  course  it  is  natural  that 
Junior  should  show  excitement,  and  he,  the  father, 
will  show  his  magnanimity  by  ignoring  this  out- 
burst. "She  is  probably  spending  the  first  payment 


252  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

which  I  made  her  on  condition  that  she'd  secure  a 
divorce. ' ' 

The  pupils  of  Junior's  eyes  narrow.  "You  mean 
to  tell  me  that  she  took  your  money  and  is  going  to 
divorce  me  ? ' ' 

"I  am  doubtless,  as  you  say,  low,"  replies  The 
Magnificent.  "But  I  assure  you  that  I  rarely  lie. 
I  gave  the  young  lady  to  understand  that  so  long  as 
I  lived  you  would  not  receive  one  penny  from  me 
unless  you  and  she  were  divorced.  It  was  unneces- 
sary to  tell  her  that  I  would  not  lea^e  you  a  dollar 
when  I  died.  She  is  a  lady  who,  in  addition  to  con- 
siderable physical  charm,  is  gifted  with  common 
sense.  She  understood." 

"You  did  this?"  asks  Junior.  He  is  extremely 
quiet. 

"I  paid  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  to  rid  you  of 
her.  Now  do  you  understand  what  I  mean  when  I 
say  that  you  could  have  bought  her?  It  probably 
would  have  cost  less,  too." 

"I  suppose  it  would,"  says  Junior  dully.  He 
stares  at  his  father  a  moment.  * '  Yes,  it  would  have 
cost  me  a  lot  less.  Good-bye." 

He  turns  and  walks  to  the  door.  The  Magnificent 
rises  and  follows  him.  "Come  back  here,"  he  calls. 
"I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

In  the  doorway  Junior  pauses.  His  dull  eyes 
travel  from  his  father's  feet  to  his  face,  resting  at 
last  upon  his  eyes. 

"What  on  earth  have  you  to  say  to  me?"  he 
asks. 

The  Magnificent  laughs,  albeit  with  a  trace  of 
nervousness. 

"A  lot  of  things,"  he  says. 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  253 

"Do  you  suppose  I  care  to  listen  to  them?"  de- 
mands Junior. 

"I  think  you'd  better,"  says  his  father.  "You 
know  I've  discontinued  your  allowance.  I  certainly 
won't  begin  it  again  until  your  attitude  changes." 

"Have  I  asked  you  for  money?"  Junior's  voice 
is  even. 

The  Magnificent  makes  an  effort  to  assume  com- 
mand of  the  situation;  somehow  Junior  seems  to 
have  wrested  it  from  him. 

"Don't  forget  that  I've  done  the  best  thing  for 
you,"  he  says. 

There  is  cynical  mirth  in  Junior's  voice  now  as 
he  says,  "I  certainly  won't.  I  can  hardly  forget  that 
you  have  proved  to  me  that  my  wife  is  for  sale." 

The  Magnificent 's  bushy  gray  eyebrows  hump  in 
the  middle;  he  doesn't  quite  know  how  to  take  this 
last  remark. 

"And  don't  forget  that  I'm  your  father,"  he  says. 

Junior  stares  at  him.  "You  bet  I  won't,"  he 
cries.  "To  my  dying  day  I'll  remember  that  you're 
my  father." 

The  Magnificent  chooses  to  ignore  the  sneer  that 
now  is  in  the  boy's  tones. 

"It  is  hard  now,"  he  says,  "but  you'll  live  to 
thank  me." 

Junior  smiles ;  it  is  an  ugly  smile,  a  smile  of  dis- 
illusionment that  sits  unbecomingly  on  the  lips  of 
youth. 

'  *  Do  you  really  think  so  f "  he  asks. 

The  Magnificent,  anxious  for  peace,  permits  him- 
self to  be  deceived  by  the  mildness  of  his  son. 

"I  wouldn't  have  done  it,  if  I  hadn't  known  you'd 
be  grateful  to  me  in  the  end, ' '  he  declares. 


254  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

Junior  looks  at  him  with  a  simulation  of  frank 
admiration.  "You're  wonderful.  Not  only  can  you 
grab  all  the  money  in  the  world,  but  you  can  read 
the  future.  You  take  people  up  in  your  hands  and 
mould  them  as  you  see  fit.  You're  just  about  God, 
aren't  you?  You've  made  such  a  wonderful  success 
of  your  own  life  that  it's  nothing  at  all  to  you  to 
make  a  success  of  my  life.  Just  as  you  made  a  suc- 
cess of  mother's  life." 

His  scorn  bites  through  the  skin  of  his  father. 
"Never  mind  about  your  mother,"  he  snaps. 

"Oh,  I  forgot  that  she  was  your  wife.  And  talk- 
ing about  anyone's  wife,  dragging  them  into  the 
conversation,  is  bad  taste,  isn't  it?" 

"You  be  careful,  or  you'll  be  sorry,"  warns  the 
Magnificent. 

"That's  right;  I  mustn't  forget  all  your  money," 
says  Junior.  "You  know,  you  can't  take  it  to  hell 
with  you,  so  I'd  better  be  civil  so  that  you'll  leave 
it  to  me." 

"One  more  word  like  this  and  I'll  never  speak  to 
you  again,"  cries  The  Magnificent. 

His  son  looks  at  him.  "That  makes  it  unani- 
mous," he  jeers,  "for  so  help  me  God  I'll  never 
speak  to  you  again. ' ' 

He  kept  his  word.  Three  months  later  he  was 
killed  in  France,  fighting  as  a  soldier  of  the  Legion 
Etrangere. 


CHAPTEE  XXIEI 

The  flags  are  half-masted  over  the  City  Hall,  the 
Masonic  Lodge,  the  Elks '  club  house,  and  the  rooms 
wherein  the  Woodmen  of  the  World  hold  their  meet- 
ings. A  guard  of  honor  is  drawn  up  in  the  square 
outside  the  railroad  station;  it  is  composed  of  bent 
old  men  in  the  faded  blue  uniforms  of  the  Grand 
Army  of  the  Eepublic,  of  straighter  and  sturdier 
men  of  middle  age  who  fought  in  the  war  with 
Spain;  back  of  them  is  a  company  of  the  state 
militia.  Crowding  the  sidewalks  and  mounted  on  the 
steps  of  the  buildings  in  the  square  are  the  citizenry 
of  Oldport. 

A  whistle  shrieks  and  the  crowd  becomes  alertly 
expectant,  ceases  its  gossip  and  badinage.  The  faint 
rumble  of  a  train  becomes  more  audible;  hissing 
and  groaning  it  pulls  into  the  station.  From  the 
ordinary  day  coaches  the  casual  travelers  descend; 
policemen  urge  them  from  the  station ;  glancing  over 
their  shoulders  they  join  the  crowd  outside,  beyond 
the  police  lines. 

From  the  rear  car  of  the  train  descend  men  in  the 
uniform  of  the  French  army,  a  garb  that  is  becom- 
ing increasingly  familiar  to  American  eyes.  They 
go  hastily  up  the  platform  to  the  baggage  car  from 
which  other  French  soldiers,  these  latter  privates, 
are  already  lifting  to  the  platform  a  long  box. 
Upon  that  box  are  draped  the  flags  of  America  and 
France.  Upon  it  also  are  floral  pieces,  and  it  takes 

255 


256  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

a  hand  truck  to  carry  outside  the  flowers  for  which 
there  is  no  room  upon  the  coffin. 

Six  sturdy  poilus  raise  the  coffin  to  their  shoul- 
ders, and  at  the  command  of  an  officer  proceed 
through  the  station.  The  crowd  outside  is  deathly 
still,  and  the  clatter  of  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  which 
draw  a  gun-carriage  into  the  square  sounds  dis- 
cordantly. The  coffin  is  deposited  upon  the  gun- 
carriage  and  the  poilus  stand  at  attention. 

From  the  last  car  of  the  train  now  descends  The 
Magnificent.  His  green  eyes,  always  deep-set,  are 
more  sunken  than  ever ;  pouches  of  loose  flesh  hang 
beneath  them;  his  bared  head  exposes  the  fact  that 
what  hair  remains  to  him  is  almost  snow  white. 
Not  so  long  ago  his  slim  body  seemed  to  hold  the 
trimness  of  youth,  but  to-day  it  seems  shrunken  as 
though  with  years.  The  hand  which  he  holds  up  to 
assist  the  heavily  veiled  woman  who  emerges  from 
the  car  is  shaking. 

But  she  does  not  need  his  support,  nor  that  of  the 
man  in  the  frock  coat,  who  will  shortly  be  recog- 
nized by  the  crowd  outside  as  the  French  Ambassa- 
dor. Firmly  she  places  her  feet  upon  the  steps  and 
descends  to  the  platform.  She  stands  there  a 
moment  beside  her  husband,  in  that  indecision  which 
the  occasion  begets.  The  Ambassador  comes  to 
their  rescue;  he  escorts  them  through  the  station, 
and  to  a  carriage  drawn  up  before  it.  Here  he 
leaves  them,  and  takes  his  place,  bare  of  head 
despite  the  bitter  January  cold,  behind  the  gun- 
carriage. 

With  difficulty  the  crowd  has  restrained  itself  at 
sight  of  Ramsey  Willoughby.  This  is  the  woman 
who,  escaping  from  Belgium,  returned  again  to  a 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  257 

self -elected  post  of  danger.  She  has  been,  since  the 
outbreak  of  the  war,  almost,  not  merely  doing  hospi- 
tal work,  but  nursing  as  close  to  the  front  as  the 
authorities  will  permit.  She  is  a  heroine,  and  her 
dead  son  is  not  the  only  Willoughby  who  has 
received  the  Croix  de  Guerre.  The  crowd  wants  to 
cheer. 

The  procession  starts;  it  leaves  the  square, 
marches  along  Front  Street  and  turns  up  Main. 
Slowly  it  climbs  the  steep  ascent,  passing  The  Com- 
mercial House,  the  old  Blake  homestead,  and  finally 
reaching  the  weather-beaten  frame  building  that  is 
the  Unitarian  Church. 

Bells  are  tolling  from  schools  and  other  churches 
as  the  cortege  halts  before  the  church.  Oldport 
mourns  her  first  sacrifice  to  the  demon  of  war ;  Old- 
port  does  not  know  that  within  three  years  it  will  be 
mourning  scores  of  other  heroes. 

The  father  and  mother  enter  the  church.  Robert, 
who  has  arrived  in  Oldport  yesterday  to  make 
funeral  arrangements,  enters  with  them.  Behind 
follow  officials  of  The  Magnificent 's  numerous  enter- 
prises, officials  of  the  state  and  national  govern- 
ments. After  them  the  people  of  Oldport  crowd 
into  the  small  building.  Among  them  is  Uncle 
Frank;  his  face  is  contorted  with  grief;  he  was 
genuinely  fond  of  Junior.  Only  the  pressure  of 
Sam  Foyle's  hand  prevents  Uncle  Frank  from 
bursting  into  tears. 

Foyle's  face  is  gray ;  his  eyes  are  sunken  and  have 
within  them  a  look  of  agony,  as  though  he  saw 
things,  things  of  horror,  invisible  to  the  other 
mourners.  His  mouth  seems  to  have  lost  the  humor- 
ous lines  which  formerly  characterized  it.  Of  course, 


258  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

we  do  not  expect  him  to  be  smiling  now,  but  neither 
do  we  understand  why  lines  of  permanent  sadness 
are  graven  in  his  face.  We  know  that  life  has  been 
none  too  kind  to  Sam  Foyle,  but  we  thought  that  life 
was  too  humorous  a  thing  to  be  taken  seriously  by 
him. 

The  minister  takes  his  place  in  the  pulpit;  in 
deference  to  the  expressed  wishes  of  The  Magnifi- 
cent the  services  in  the  church  are  brief.  They  are 
soon  ended  and  the  congregation  remains  in  the  little 
edifice  until  the  family  and  immediate  friends  have 
departed.  Once  again  the  procession  takes  up  its 
way  to  the  graveyard  on  the  side  of  the  hill  overlook- 
ing the  bay.  Here  again  the  services  are  brief. 
The  minister  utters  a  prayer,  and  the  French 
Ambassador  expresses  briefly  the  sorrow  of  his 
government  and  its  gratitude  to  the  hero  who  died 
for  an  alien  flag. 

The  veterans  of  two  wars,  and  the  militia,  and  the 
French  soldiers  march  away.  The  group  of  close 
associates  and  friends  enter  their  carriages.  The 
spectators,  come  to  pay  their  last  tribute  of  respect, 
melt  away.  The  Magnificent  and  Ramsey  and  Rob- 
ert are  left  alone.  They  remain  only  a  few  minutes, 
standing  silently  before  the  flower-strewn  mound  of 
freshly  turned  earth.  Then  they,  too,  enter  their 
carriage. 

The  old  Blake  mansion  has  been  prepared  for 
their  coming.  To  it  they  drive ;  the  day  has  become 
more  bitterly  cold,  and  flakes  of  snow  are  drifting 
down  from  a  leaden  sky.  Inside  the  house  The 
Magnificent  offers  to  assist  Ramsey  in  the  removal 
of  her  wraps.  She  accepts  his  aid  and  then  they 
walk  together  into  the  living-room.  Robert  follows, 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  259 

lingers  a  moment,  and  then  softly  withdraws.  He 
goes  to  a  room  up-stairs,  that  was  once  the  nursery 
wherein  he  and  his  elder  brother  used  to  play.  He 
sees  broken  toys,  the  remains  of  the  telegraph  sys- 
tem that  he  and  Junior  made,  even  an  old  battered 
doll.  He  throws  himself  upon  a  frayed  old  horse- 
hair sofa,  and  weeps  for  the  brother  whom  he  has 
lost.  He  does  not  know  why  Junior  so  suddenly 
raced  abroad  and  enlisted  in  the  French  army.  He 
did  not  know  that  Junior  had  taken  the  war  so 
seriously.  He  himself  has  not  done  so,  but  now  that 
his  brother  has  been  slain,  the  urge  of  revenge  is 
within  his  soul.  He  wonders  how  his  parents,  hav- 
ing lost  one  son,  will  take  it  when  he  declares  his 
intention  of  enlisting. 

Down-stairs  there  is  a  long  silence  between  hus- 
band and  wife.  The  Magnificent  has  drawn  chairs 
up  before  an  open  fire,  and  together  they  stare  into 
the  leaping  flames.  Ever  and  again  he  glances  from 
the  blaze  to  Ramsey's  face.  He  marvels  that  she 
looks  so  well.  He  seems  to  detect  a  trace  of  gray  in 
her  blonde  hair,  but  it  renders  it  none  the  less  beau- 
tiful. She  is  no  heavier  in  this,  her  forty-third  year, 
than  she  was  nearly  five  years  ago  when  he  last  saw 
her.  In  fact,  she  is  thinner ;  exhausting  labors  have 
taken  toll  in  flesh.  There  are  dark  semi-circles  below 
her  eyes,  and  her  sensitive  nostrils  seem  a  little 
more  clearly  defined.  Nevertheless,  she  looks  re- 
markably well. 

There  are  a  score  of  things  that  he  wishes  to  ask 
her ;  but  he  does  not  like  to  break  the  silence.  She 
arrived  on  the  Lusitania  yesterday,  bringing  with 
her  the  body  of  her  son.  He  knows  that  the  agony 
of  that  journey  must  have  been  almost  unendurable ; 


260  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

it  must  be  racking  her  soul  now.  If,  with  the  strain 
ended,  she  should  break  down,  it  would  be  the  nor- 
mal, the  expected  thing.  And  it  would  give  him 
opportunity  to  break  the  barriers  that  are  still 
between  them,  that  their  son's  death  somehow,  he 
feels,  should  drive  away.  He  wants  to  comfort  her, 
but  he  does  not  know  how. 

It  is  she  who  finally  speaks.  "I  had  forgotten 
how  lovely,  how  homely,  the  old, place  is.  Amanda 
Barrett  is  a  treasure." 

He  is  glad  that  she  chooses  to  utter  a  common- 
place. "A  jewel  of  purest  ray  serene,"  he  says. 

Eamsey  sighs.  ''It's  home,"  she  declares.  "I 
wish  we  'd  never  left  it. ' ' 

He  leans  forward  and  takes  her  hand.  "You 
shall  never  leave  it  again,  Ramsey, ' '  he  tells  her. 

She  smiles  wanly.  "I'm  needed  over  there;  at 
least,  I  like  to  think  so." 

"You're  needed  here,"  lie  says. 

She  shakes  her  head.  "I  haven't  been — why 
should  I  be?" 

He  presses  the  fingers  that  lie  so  limply  within 
his  own. 

"I've  always  needed  you,"  he  says. 

She  returns  faintly  the  pressure  of  his  fingers. 
"That's  nice  of  you,  Jim,  but — you  don't  have  to. 
It's  sweet  of  you  to  want  to  comfort  me  but — you 
can't." 

"I  know  I  can't,"  he  replies.  "Any  more  than  I 
can  be." 

"Such  a  boy.  Remember  how  we  laughed  at  his 
first  words?" 

He  groans.    "Don't,  Ramsey,"  he  begs. 

She  suddenly  snatches  her  hand  from  him.    "If 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  261 

I'd  only  known — you  never  wrote  me  that  he  was 
over  there." 

"I  didn't  know  it,  myself,"  answers  The  Mag- 
nificent. 

She  stares  at  him.  "You  didn't  know  it?"  she 
asks  incredulously.  "What  do  you  mean?"  The 
pupils  of  her  eyes  dilate.  "Why,  that's  the  strang- 
est— you  must  have  quarreled.  You  did  quarrel! 
You  must  have !  What  about  ? ' ' 

"Not  now,  Ramsey,"  he  says,  soothingly.  "Not 
to-day  when  you  are  all  worn  out. ' ' 

"I've  borne  so  much  that  a  little  more  won't 
hurt."  Her  eyes  flash  sudden  anger.  "What  did 
you  do  to  him?"  she  cries  accusingly. 

"Nothing,"  he  tells  her. 

* '  Nothing  ? ' '  She  is  unbelieving.  * '  Junior  wasn  't 
the  kind  to  quarrel  over  nothing." 

Her  eyes  hold  his,  impelling  him  to  answer,  to 
explanation,  to  extenuation. 

"He  was  hot-headed,  excited,  his  pride  hurt,"  he 
says. 

"How?"  she  demands. 

"Let  it  wait,  Ramsey,"  he  begs.  "It's  all  over 
now;  I  may  have  been  hasty;  but  I  thought  I  was 
doing  the  right  thing. ' ' 

"What  were  you  doing?  What  did  you  do?"  she 
insists. 

"He  got  tangled  up  with  a — my  God,  Ramsey, 
you  don't  want  to  listen  to  this.  Not  to-day." 

' '  Tell  me. ' '    She  is  imperative. 

"A  woman;  a  chorus  girl.  She  had  him  in  her 
clutches,"  he  says. 

"Well?  Did  he  have  to  run  away?  You  don't 
mean  to  tell  me  that  you  refused  to  help  him?" 


262  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

"I  did  help  him,  but  he  refused  to  understand," 
The  Magnificent  defends  himself. 

"Stop  talking  in  riddles!  What  did  he  do?"  she 
asks. 

"He  married  her;  I  knew  what  she  was.  I  sent 
for  her,  told  her  that  she'd  never  get  a  nickel  as  long 
as  she  was  Junior's  wife.  I  gave  her  money  to 
leave  him." 

Ramsey  is  aghast.    "You  what?" 

"Gave  her  ten  thousand  dollars  with  a  promise 
of  ninety  more  if  she'd  divorce  him.  She  took  it  and 
left  Junior.  He  came  to  me.  He  was  angry.  In- 
stead of  being  grateful  to  me  for  showing  him  what 
a  mercenary  little  baggage  she  was,  he  was  furious. 
We  had — words." 

Ramsey's  jaw  sinks  downward;  she  has  a  fatuous 
expression  upon  her  face,  an  expression  of  bewil- 
dered, dazed  amazement. 

'  *  You  had— words  f "  she  asks.    l '  Is  that  all !  " 

"All?  What  do  you  mean?"  asks  The  Mag- 
nificent. 

She  rises  suddenly  from  her  chair ;  she  walks  the 
full  length  of  the  living-room,  stopping  before  the 
French  windows  that  open  upon  the  glassed-in 
conservatory  that  The  Magnificent  built  in  the  early 
years  of  Pinnacle.  From  her  lips  suddenly  burst 
peals  of  laughter,  at  first  scornful,  but  slowly  rising 
into  the  uncontrollable  stages  of  hysteria.  The 
Magnificent  leaves  his  chair  and  comes  toward  her. 
His  approach,  the  nearness  of  him,  help  her  to  mas- 
ter herself.  Rather  than  be  touched  by  him,  she 
will  control  herself. 

"All?  What  do  you  mean?"  The  Magnificent 
repeats  himself. 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  263 

Hysteria  suddenly  leaves  her,  as  suddenly  as  it 
came,  it  seems. 

"Mean!  Didn't  he  strike  you?  Didn't  he  knock 
you  down?  Didn't  he  even  try  to  kill  you?" 

The  Magnificent  is  horrified.  He  can  understand 
and  deal  with  hysteria ;  hysteria,  under  the  circum- 
stances, is  not  merely  natural,  it  is  almost  inevitable. 
But  with  this  sneering  malignity,  so  foreign  to 
all  his  conceptions  of  Ramsey,  he  is  unable  to 
cope. 

4 'What  are  you  saying,  Ramsey?  I  did  what  I 
considered  the  wisest  thing.  How  did  I  know,  how 
could  I  possibly  tell  that  he  would  take  it 
seriously  ? ' ' 

"How  could  you?"  She  mocks  him.  "God  knows 
you  never  took  marriage  seriously.  You  never  let 
it  interfere  with  business.  Why  should  your  son  be 
different  from  you?  If  your  father  had  bribed  me 
to  leave  you,  you'd  never  have  run  away  to  your 
death.  How  could  you  possibly  expect  that  a  son  of 
yours  would  have  a  heart?" 

"Be  fair,  Ramsey,"  he  pleads. 

"Were  you  fair?"  she  counters.  "You  wouldn't 
let  him  learn  for  himself  what  his  wife  was.  Why, 
you  don't  even  know  yourself  what  she  was.  You 
bribed  her  and  threatened  her ;  you  never  gave  her  a 
chance  to  prove  herself,  nor  Junior  a  chance  to 
make  her  what  she  might  be."  Her  voice  breaks 
and  becomes  shrill.  She  pauses,  breathes  deeply, 
clenching  her  hands  tightly  to  keep  self-mastery. 
Then  she  continues.  "What  right  had  you  to  do 
this  thing?" 

He  is  becoming  angry  now.  "The  right  of  a 
father,"  he  replies  harshly. 


264  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

"What  about  the  right  of  a  mother?"  she  de- 
mands. "He  was  my  son  as  much  as  yours." 

"You  weren't  here,"  he  reminds  her. 

She  eyes  him  as  though  she  has  never  seen  him 
before. 

*  *  You  kept  the  marriage  out  of  the  papers.  I  can 
understand  that.  But  the  divorce?  How  was  that 
kept  so  quiet?  But  perhaps  she  hasn't  got  it  yet? 
Is  that  it?"  Her  voice  is  eager.  "We  can  stop  her. 
Why, ' '  and  she  is  suddenly  threatened  with  hysteria 
again,  "she's  his  widow.  She  can't  divorce  him 
now. ' ' 

"I  don't  know  that  she  even  started  the  divorce 
proceedings,"  says  The  Magnificent.  "I  got 
through  with  her  when  I  gave  her  the  first  check.  I 
told  her  to  communicate  with  my  lawyers.  I've 
heard  no  more  from  her  and  don't  want  to." 

' '  But  I  do, ' '  cries  Ramsey. 

"In  the  name  of  God,  why?"  demands  her  hus- 
band. "We're  well  rid  of  her.  The  mercenary 
little  baggage." 

Ramsey  stares  at  him.  "Mercenary?  Jim,  do 
you  know  how  funny  that  sounds  ? ' ' 

"Funny?  On  this  day  of  my  son's  funeral  I  can 
see  humor  in  nothing,"  he  declares  stiffly. 

He  advances  suddenly  toward  her.  The  stiffness 
leaves  his  manner.  "Ramsey,  perhaps  I  did  make  a 
mistake ;  perhaps  I  was  wrong.  But  is  this  the  time 
to  tell  me  so?" 

She  looks  at  him,  bewildered  by  his  sudden  change 
of  manner. 

"The  time  to  tell  you  so?"  She  echoes  his  words. 
"I  don't  know.  Is  there  any  time  for  reproaches? 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  265 

Aren't  they  always  too  late?  I  have  no  right  to 
judge  you.  I  have  no — no  wish  to." 

Her  hands  suddenly  go  up  and  clutch  her  hair. 

1  'Oh,  my  baby  boy,"  she  cries. 

He  comes  nearer  to  her;  his  arms  go  around  her. 
For  a  moment  she  stands  quiescent  in  his  clasp. 

Then  she  shudders.  " Don't,"  she  says.  "I  can't 
stand  it." 

"Not  even  my  touching  you?"  he  asks,  hurt  and 
mortified.  "Not  even  my  touching  you?"  he 
repeats. 

She  turns  in  his  arms  until  their  faces  are  close 
together. 

"Not  your  touching  me;  my  loving  you,"  she 
says.  "Oh,  God,  why  must  we  love  where  we  want 
to  hate  ?  My  baby  boy ! ' ' 

She  is  limp  and  unresisting  now  in  his  arms.  The 
Magnificent 's  greatest  defeat  is  his  greatest  victory. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

One  hundred  and  ten  million  Messiahs  loudly 
chanting  our  own  virtues;  the  figure  of  Uncle  Sam 
replaced  by  a  wild-eyed  virgin  gone  slightly  mad 
from  suppressed  desire ;  war,  once  the  recreation  of 
a  gentleman,  debased  to  the  uses  of  four-minute- 
orators  ;  the  fiction  of  sportsmanship  giving  way  to 
the  reality  of  the  propagandist;  reason  dethroned 
and  the  back-house  philosopher  supreme. 

"I  didn't  raise  my  boy  to  be  a  soldier." 

" Over  there." 

The  whiner  and  the  braggart :  his  apotheosis. 

The  slacker,  the  one  hundred  percent  American, 
the  woman  who  discovered  spies,  the  men  who 
thanked  the  woman,  the  pacifists,  the  militarists,  the 
profiteers. 

Food  will  win  the  war ;  ships  will  win  the  war ;  tin- 
foil will  win  the  war ;  prohibition  will  win  the  war ; 
peach  stones  will  win  the  war ;  turning  golf  courses 
into  potato  fields  will  win  the  war;  gasolene  will 
win  the  war;  the  newspapers  will  win  the  war;  the 
girl  scouts  will  win  the  war ;  cigarettes  will  win  the 
war ;  chocolate  will  win  the  war ;  railroads  will  win 
the  war;  Dollar- A- Year  Men  will  win  the  war. 

The  hero  who  riveted  God  knows  how  many  bolts 
on  the  hull  of  a  ship  that  never  sailed;  the  prize 
fighter  who  gave  boxing  lessons  to  recruits ;  the  mil- 
lionaire who  bought  ten  million  dollars'  worth  of 
tax  free  Liberty  Bonds;  the  other  millionaire  who 

267 


268  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

dispensed  with  the  services  of  his  valet;  the  magni- 
ficent woman  who  wore  last  year's  dress;  her  sis- 
ter who  wore  herself  to  a  shadow  dancing  with  of- 
ficers; the  man  who  printed  the  Kaiser's  picture  on 
toilet  paper  and  the  gentleman  who  purchased  it. 

And  then,  God  forgive  us  that  we  have  forgotten 
them,  the  fifty  thousand  Yankee  dead  upon  the  fields 
of  France !  The  maimed  and  the  blind,  who  were 
to  be  enshrined  forever  in  the  hearts  of  their  coun- 
trymen, but  who  have  traded  long  enough  on  their 
war  services. 

The  boys  who  went  away  that  I  might  hold  my 
job;  I  promised  them  that  while  I  had  a  dollar  of 
my  own  it  was  their  own  upon  the  asking.  How 
have  I  kept  my  word? 

We  won  the  war ;  the  English  fleet  won  the  war ;  the 
French  army  won  the  war ;  Clemenceau  won  the  war ; 
Lloyd  George  won  the  war;  Wilson  won  the  war. 

Take  the  last  dollar  from  the  dirty  Hun.  Don't 
take  anything  from  him.  When  is  Europe  going  to 
pay  her  bills?  We'll  be  ruined  if  she  doesn't;  we'll 
be  ruined  if  she  does. 

We're  ruined  anyway.  The  impetus  of  war's  ac- 
tivities has  carried  us  for  a  year  or  so,  but  now, 
with  Europe  prostrate,  we  have  no  market.  A  mil- 
lion men  are  suddenly  idle;  two  million;  three 
million 

What  are  we  going  to  do?  Obviously,  we  must 
pass  some  laws.  Prohibition  is  enacted ;  it  is  a  suc- 
cess. Thousands  of  men,  but  yesterday  out  of  work, 
have  become  prosperous  boot-leggers.  Let's  stop 
tobacco  and  coffee  and  everything  else. 

There's  too  much  sex  in  the  country;  of  course 
the  war  is  responsible. 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  269 

There's  too  much  crime  in  the  country.  Well, 
we've  just  been  through  a  war;  what  can  you  ex- 
pect? 

From  his  long  sleep  the  Puritan  awakes.  He  has 
never  had  much  imagination,  and  what  he  does  not 
understand  he  hates  and  fears.  He  has  no  confi- 
dence in  his  own  powers  of  resistance  to  the  things 
which  he  thinks  evil,  nor  has  he  much  faith  in  his 
harsh  God.  God  helps  those  who  help  themselves: 
this  is  his  philosophy,  and  he  does  not  know  how 
cynical  it  is.  His  God  will  not  help  him  destroy 
temptation,  so  he  must  manage  to  do  it  by  laws.  He 
has  great  faith  that  man  in  the  mass  can  do  what 
man  as  an  individual  cannot  hope  to  do. 

For  a  hundred  years  he  has  deluded  himself  with 
the  belief  that  hatred  for  a  king  constitutes  a  love 
for  democracy.  He  has  never  been  a  democrat,  but 
thinks  he  has.  He  does  not  cherish  freedom  of 
conscience,  despite  his  affirmation. 

He  wakes  from  a  bad  dream ;  he  is  terrified  by  the 
spectres  that  have  tormented  him  in  the  night.  The 
pretended  tolerance  of  a  century,  a  tolerance  that 
existed  only  when  there  was  a  need  and  a  place  for 
cheap  labor,  leaves  him.  A  yokel  at  heart,  he  has 
the  yokel's  inhibitions,  the  yokel's  distrust  of  a 
superior  man. 

He  asks,  not  that  his  representative  in  public  life 
be  a  man  of  understanding  culture,  but  a  peasant, 
understanding  and  interpreting  his  constituents' 
peasantry. 

He  does  not  ask  if  his  representative  has  brains. 
Instead  he  prefers  to  know  the  quality  and  the  num- 
ber of  his  morals.  In  his  ignorance,  he  knows  but 
one  sort  of  morality,  the  morality  of  the  flesh.  His 


270  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

womenkind,  unlovely  and  unloved,  rule  him  utterly. 
She  has  formed  a  partnership  with  his  clergyman, 
and  from  neither  woman  nor  the  clergy  has  enlight- 
enment ever  come,  for  enlightenment  is  arrived  at 
only  by  the  road  of  new  ideas,  and  woman  and  church 
have  opposed  these  from  time  immemorial. 

A  nation  cries  for  food  and  he  gives  it  a  censor- 
ship of  moving  pictures.  It  cries  for  shelter  and  is 
told  that  Darwin  was  a  monster.  It  asks  for  work 
and  is  told  that  its  legislatures  are  busy  disfranchis- 
ing ignorant  and  harmless  Socialists. 

We  fought  for  civilization  and  won  a  Ouija 
Board. 

We  look  at  Europe's  chaos  and  wonder  when  it 
will  engulf  us.  We  look  at  Versailles  and  weep ;  we 
look  at  Washington  and  grin ;  we  look  at  Genoa  and 
laugh ;  we  do  not  hang  the  Kaiser ;  we  pay  him  two 
hundred  thousand  dollars  for  his  memoirs.  Oh, 
hell,  let's  go  to  the  Follies. 

Uncle  Frank  Dabney  is  seated  upon  the  veranda 
of  The  Commercial  House.  There  is  a  bulge  in  his 
left  cheek,  and  if  we  did  not  know  him  we  would  sus- 
pect that  he  had  a  toothache  or  a  beginning  boil. 
But  now  his  lips  pucker  and  he  leans  forward;  a 
certain  process  assures  us  that  Uncle  Frank's  teeth 
and  blood  are  all  right,  but  that  he  has  never  wav- 
ered in  his  devotion  to  Navy  Twist.  He  leans  back 
in  his  chair  and  politely  wipes  his  mouth  with  the 
back  of  his  hand. 

He  composes  himself  for  his  morning  siesta.  A 
conservative,  he  still  affects,  on  mid-summer  days 
like  this,  the  wide-brimmed  straw  sun-hat  of  his 
youth.  He  tips  it  forward  upon  his  face  now,  to 
shield  his  features  from  the  sun.  He  is  as  fat,  in 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  271 

this  July  of  1922,  as  he  was  on  that  spring  day  of 
1890  when  first  we  met  him.  Physicians,  profes- 
sional and  amateur,  without  number,  have  told  him 
that  unless  he  diets  he  will  come  to  an  early  end. 
And  yet  here  he  is  at  sixty-seven,  still  "able"  and 
eupeptic,  and  disdaining  the  aid  of  a  jack-knife  when 
he  needs  a  chew  of  Navy  Twist.  Verily,  there  is  a 
lesson  in  Uncle  Frank.  But,  then,  there  is  a  lesson 
in  everyone  if  we  only  knew  how  to  receive  it. 

Up  the  front  steps  of  the  hotel  comes  a  tall  thin 
man,  perhaps  fifty-five  years  of  age,  attired  in 
white  knickers  and  a  brown  Norfolk  jacket.  Upon 
his  head  is  jauntily  perched  a  cap.  He  carries  his 
years  extremely  well.  There  is  a  chair  close  to  that 
occupied  by  the  huge  bulk  of  Uncle  Frank  and  into 
it  the  newcomer  drops.  He  takes  off  his  cap  and 
with  a  fine  linen  handkerchief  mops  his  moist  brow. 
The  clatter  made  by  his  golf  clubs,  as  he  dropped 
them  on  the  veranda  floor,  has  caused  Uncle  Frank 
to  straighten  in  his  chair  and  push  back  his  hat.  He 
eyes  with  disapproval  the  newcomer. 

"You'll  die  of  apoplexy  or  heat  rash  or  something 
if  you  keep  on  chasing  a  golf  ball  over  the  medders 
on  hot  days  like  this,"  he  says  severely. 

"Die  nothing,"  exclaims  the  other.  His  voice  is 
familiar,  although  we  have  not  heard  it  for  many 
years.  He  is  our  old  friend  the  drummer,  who  sold 
Perigord's  Soap.  Now,  though,  he  is  president  of 
the  concern  which  he  used  to  represent  on  the  road, 
and  spends  his  summers  at  The  Commercial  House 
because  of  it  proximity  to  the  Oldport  Country  Club 
with  its  noted  eighteen  hole  course.  He  occupies  the 
best  suite  in  the  hotel  and  is  still  a  bachelor,  al- 
though scores  of  pretty  waitresses  did  their  best  to 


272  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

ensnare  him  in  the  days  of  the  buggy  and  the  mare, 
and  as  many  ladies,  of  more  exalted  social  standing, 
have  tried  to  capture  him  now  that  the  buggy  has 
been  superseded  by  the  Rolls-Royce  that  his  chauf- 
feur is  now  driving  to  the  garage. 

"It's  you  that'll  die,  you  fat  old  rascal,"  he  de- 
clares. "I've  done  eighteen  holes  this  morning; 
broke  a  hundred,  too.  I'm  going  for  a  sail  and  a 
swim  this  afternoon,  and  to-night  I  expect  to  spend 
five  hours  improving  my  technic  at  the  fox-trot." 

Uncle  Frank  surveys  him  scornfully.  "Who  in 
Tophet  you  think  you're  fooling?"  he  demands. 

"The  undertaker,"  chuckles  Perigord's  president. 

Uncle  Frank  snorts  contemptuously.  "I  can  do 
that  settin'  here,"  he  states.  "Without  gettin'  all 
sweated  up,  either." 

"Think  of  the  fun  I  have,"  argues  the  owner  of 
Perigord's. 

"Think  of  the  fun  the  young  folks  have  laughing 
at  you,"  says  Uncle  Frank  with  a  grin. 

"Let  'em  laugh,"  retorts  the  other.  "I  notice 
that  they're  willing  to  go  riding  in  my  car.  Es- 
pecially the  girls,"  he  adds  complacently. 

Uncle  Frank  snorts  again  but  disdains  further 
comment.  The  president  of  Perigord  lights  a  cigar 
and  looks  contemplatively  down  Main  Street.  Its 
sidewalks,  cement  now,  instead  of  the  planks  of 
thirty  years  ago,  are  crowded  with  people ;  the  road 
itself,  asphalt  instead  of  dirt,  is  jammed  with  motor 
cars.  Fashionable  sports  clothes  have  replaced  the 
work-a-day  garb  of  a  generation  gone.  The  hired 
hand  who  condescended  to  drive  his  mistrsss  along 
Main  Street  thirty  years  ago,  and  thought  that  if  he 
fastened  a  collar  and  tie  around  his  usually  bared 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  273 

neck  he  was  degrading  his  masculinity,  is  replaced 
by  a  liveried  chauffeur.  The  residences  on  lower 
Main  Street  have  been  torn  down;  shops  occupy 
their  sites.  The  residences  on  upper  Main  Street 
have  been  replaced  by  apartment  houses ;  their  spa- 
cious lawns  have  been  sacrificed  to  man's  herd  in- 
stinct. Only  the  old  Blake  mansion,  of  all  those  fine 
and  dignified  Colonial  houses,  with  their  red  brick 
walls  and  white  shutters,  the  only  type  of  house  that 
America  has  been  able  to  build  and  make  look  like 
home,  remains.  Only  a  multi-millionaire  like  The 
Magnificent  can  afford  to  resist  the  offers  of  real 
estate  speculators. 

Unconsciously  Perigord's  president  sighs;  like  all 
the  rest  of  us  he  wonders  if  change  is  always  im- 
provement. But  the  lips  that  are  parted  in  a  sigh 
now  curl  in  a  smile.  Thirty-two  years  have  not 
changed  our  drummer. 

"Now  that's  what  I  call  a  peacherino,"  he  an- 
nounces. 

Uncle  Frank  looks  contemptuous  again.  "If  you 
was  really  young,  instead  of  an  antique  imitation, 
you  wouldn't  use  such  language.  You'd  call  her  a 
swell  dish,  or  some  Susie,  or  even  Cutie,"  he  re- 
marks. * '  Which  one  you  mean,  anyway  ? ' ' 

The  boss  of  Perigord's  points.  "If  I  was  ever 
sucker  enough  to  get  married,  that's  the  kind  of 
woman  I'd  want,"  he  declares. 

"You'd  do  better  to  adopt  her,"  says  Uncle 
Frank. 

"Aw,  you're  jealous,"  says  his  companion. 
"Why,  at  that,  she  must  be  close  to  forty." 

Uncle  Frank  straightens  up  in  his  chair.    "Why, 


274  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

I  thought  you  meant  the  young  one.  She's  mighty 
pretty." 

"She  is,"  admits  the  ex-drummer,  "but  the  older 
one  is  a  queen." 

Uncle  Frank  rises,  but  the  two  women,  old  and 
young,  have  not  seen  his  waving  sun-hat,  and  are 
lost  in  the  crowds  that  throng  the  sidewalks.  Uncle 
Frank  returns  to  his  chair.  He  eyes,  with  reluctant 
approval,  the  tenant  of  the  best  suite  in  The  Com- 
mercial House. 

"I've  known  you  goin'  on  thirty-five  years,  since 
you  were  a  snip  of  a  fresh  young  drummer,"  says 
Uncle  Frank,  "and  that's  the  first  time  you've  ever 
shown  any  sense  at  all.  You've  been  wrong  on  poli- 
tics and  prohibition  and  religion  and  everything 
else,  but  daggone  if  you  ain't  right  this  time.  You 
said  'queen'.  Queen  is  absolutely  dead  right." 

Perigord's  chief  tan  looks  pleased  with  himself. 
Praise  from  Uncle  Frank  is  a  rare  morsel  for  his 
mastication. 

"Who  is  she?    Sister  of  yours?"  he  inquires. 

"That's  Jim  Willoughby's  wife,"  replies  Uncle 
Frank. 

His  companion  rises  and  stares  down  the  street; 
he  sighs  as,  unable  again  to  see  the  object  of  his 
admiration,  he  resumes  his  chair. 

"All  I  can  say  is  that  The  Magnificent  is  a  lucky 
dog.  He's  got  all  the  money  in  the  world,  and  the 
best  looking  wife — hell,  she's  over  forty." 

"Fifty,"  says  Uncle  Frank. 

The  summer  resident  whistles.  "She  certainly 
don't  look  it."  He  puffs  at  his  cigar.  "Wasn't 
there  lots  of  talk  about  her  giving  The  Magnificent 
the  air?" 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  275 

" There's  always  talk,"  snaps  Uncle  Frank. 
"I've  even  heard  it  said  that  a  little  girl  who 
checked  hats,  up  at  the  Adams  House  in  Boston, 
gave  you  the  mitten." 

His  guest  flushes.    "Lyin'  talk,"  he  exclaims. 

"Most  talk  is,"  asserts  Uncle  Frank,  smiling 
faintly. 

"Who's  the  young  woman  with  her?"  asks  the 
soap  plutocrat. 

"Her  son's  widow,"  Uncle  Frank  informs  him. 
"I  suppose  you  heard  talk  about  her,  too?" 

"Well,  there  was  some  talk  in  the  paper  about 
The  Magnificent  not  liking  it.  She's  good-looking 
though. ' ' 

"She's  a  nice  girl,"  says  Uncle  Frank. 

Perigord's  ruler  shows  no  inclination  to  continue 
the  subject.  His  eighteen  holes  of  golf  have  tired 
him,  and  he  puffs  languidly  at  his  cigar  for  a  while. 
But  he  was  ever  loquacious;  he  cannot  keep  silent 
long. 

"I  should  think  you'd  be  inside  somewhere,  re- 
hearsing your  speech, ' '  he  says  slyly. 

Uncle  Frank  sniffs.  "Think  I'll  get  nervous  at 
talking  to  a  lot  of  people  I've  known  all  my  life?" 
he  demands. 

"There'll  be  lots  of  people  there  that  you  don't 
know.  Ain't  the  Governor  coming,  and  a  lot  of  Wil- 
loughby's  millionaire  friends?" 

"I  got  a  million  myself;  money  don't  scare  me," 
says  Uncle  Frank. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  that;  it  don't  scare  me 
either;  not  when  it's  mine,"  asserts  his  companion. 
"It's  sort  of  old-home  week,  this  dedication  of  the 


276  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

Willoughby  Memorial,  ain't  it?  Everybody  com- 
ing home,  eh?" 

"Nearly,"  says  Uncle  Frank. 

"I've  seen  a  lot  of  the  old-timers.  More  people 
that  I'd  forgotten  have  come  up  to  me  and  called 
me  by  name — what  happened  to  that  Foyle  fellow? 
Didn't  he  get  in  some  sort  of  jam  during  the  war? 
Seems  to  me  I  read  about  it." 

"He  was  always  in  a  jam,"  says  Uncle  Frank. 

"But  I  mean  a  real  jam,"  says  the  former  sales- 
man. "Refused  to  go  to  war,  and  defended  a  lot  of 
damn '  pacifists. ' ' 

Uncle  Frank  nods.  "That's  what  he  did.  Said 
he'd  been  through  one  war,  and  couldn't  make  up 
his  mind  that  war  was  a  good  thing.  Of  course,  he 
was  way  over  the  age  limit  and  they  couldn't  make 
him  go  to  this  one.  Then,  when  he  tried  to  get  into 
the  hospital  service,  they  turned  him  down.  Said 
they  didn't  want  any  damn'  pacifists  around. 

"Well,  he'd  gone  back  to  Ohio,  to  practice  law 
again.  He  had  a  good  job  in  the  newspaper  busi- 
ness, but  he  lost  it.  I  saw  him  and  asked  him  about 
it,  just  before  we  went  into  the  war.  He  was  down 
here  for  a  few  days.  I  never  could  get  the  straight 
of  it  from  him.  He  just  said  he  was  a  damn'  fool, 
and  after  hearing  Jim  Willoughby 's  side  of  it — " 

"Oh,  yes,"  interpolates  the  other,  "he  sent  out 
some  story  that  Willoughby  denied." 

"That  was  it,  and  I  couldn't  hardly  blame  Wil- 
loughby," says  Uncle  Frank.  "Anyway,  I've  quit 
blaming  people  for  things.  Well,  Foyle  tried  to  help 
a  lot  of  conscientious  objectors,  and  that  got  him  in 
pretty  bad  out  in  Ohio." 

"What's  he  doing  now?"  asks  the  ex-drummer. 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  277 

"I  don't  know,"  says  Uncle  Frank.  "I  wrote 
him  last  week  asking  him  to  come  on  and  hear  me 
speak  to-night,  but  I  ain't  heard  from  him." 

"I  shouldn't  think  you'd  want  anything  to  do  with 
him,"  says  Perigord's  president. 

' '  Why  not  ? "  demands  Uncle  Frank.  ' '  Sam  Foyle 
is  the  squarest  man  I  ever  knew. ' ' 

"Damn*  pacifist,"  says  the  soap  man. 

"A  lot  of  people  say  that  about  Christ,"  ventures 
Uncle  Frank. 

As  he  speaks  a  uniformed  bell-boy  emerges  from 
the  hotel,  bearing  a  yellow  envelope  which  he  hands 
to  Uncle  Frank.  We  understand  how  prosperous 
The  Commerical  House  has  become;  it  has  its  own 
telegraph  office.  Uncle  Frank  dismisses  the  boy  and 
opens  the  envelope.  He  takes  in  the  message  at  a 
glance,  and  his  face  grows  white. 

1  'And  wasn't  there  a  lot  of  talk  about  him  marry- 
ing some  fast  girl?"  Perigord's  president  does  not 
note  the  ashen  pallor  of  Uncle  Frank's  face.  Tele- 
grams are  such  common  occurrences  that  he  at- 
taches no  particular,  certainly  no  tragic,  significance 
to  this  one. 

"Lots,"  says  Uncle  Frank  tersely. 

"And  didn't  they  say — wasn't  there  some  talk 
about  his  father  not  really  being  his  father?"  per- 
sists the  soap  man. 

Uncle  Frank  climbs  heavily  out  of  his  chair. 
"There  was,"  he  says.  "What's  more,  he's  been 
crucified,  too. ' ' 

Something  in  the  intonation  of  his  voice  causes 
Perigord's  president  to  look  sharply  up  at  him. 
Uncle  Frank's  fat  face  is  twisted  and  contorted  in 
agony;  tears  stream  down  his  cheeks.  He  walks 


278  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

unsteadily  across  the  veranda  and  into  the  hotel. 

The  jaw  of  the  ex-drummer  drops  in  amazement. 
He  sees  upon  the  floor  the  telegram  which  has 
slipped  from  Uncle  Frank's  fingers.  He  obeys  the 
behest  of  curiosity  and  picks  it  up.  He  reads  it 
aloud. 

"  Samuel  Foyle  died  yesterday.  Submitted  to 
transfusion  operation  to  save  life  of  a  child.  Loss 
of  blood  and  effects  of  old  wound  aggravated  by 
malnutrition  caused  death.  Named  you  as  friend. 
Will  you  guarantee  funeral  expenses?" 

It  was  signed  by  the  superintendent  of  a  hospital 
in  an  Ohio  town. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

On  Windmill  Hill,  on  the  outskirts  of  town,  have 
been  erected  a  group  of  buildings.  They  are  of  red 
brick,  with  white  doors  and  window  frames;  one 
knows  at  once  that  they  comprise  an  institution  of 
some  sort,  but  the  cheery  informality  of  their  de- 
sign lends  them  a  warmth  not  usually  associated 
with  institutions.  Charming  cottages,  with  care- 
fully groomed  lawns,  and  old-fashioned  flower  beds, 
surround  the  larger  buildings.  These  latter  are  the 
homes  of  the  professors  who  form  the  faculty  of  the 
newly  organized  Oldport  College.  It  has  not  yet 
been  thrown  open  to  the  public,  but  the  president 
and  staff  of  teachers  have  been  engaged,  and  over 
three  hundred  pupils  have  enrolled  for  the  term  be- 
ginning in  September.  It  has  no  traditions,  but  it 
needs  none.  For  it  is  the  gift  of  Jameson  Briggs 
Willoughby  to  his  native  town.  His  name  supplies 
any  lack  of  romantic  tradition. 

A  ready-made  college,  with  a  ready-made  faculty, 
and  a  ready-made  student  body  waiting  eagerly  for 
the  opportunity  to  enjoy  its  advantages.  Where 
else  in  the  world  could  such  a  thing  occur?  Let 
Europe  sneer  at  our  lack  of  cultural  background; 
give  us  a  little  time,  that's  all  we  ask. 

Five  million  dollars  have  been  spent  already  in 
buildings — labor  and  materials  were  never  higher 
than  they  have  been  the  past  few  years — and  in 
equipment.  Ten  million  dollars  have  been  put  aside 

279 


280  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

as  an  endowment  fund,  bringing  in  an  income  of 
half  a  million  dollars.  There  are  to  be  nominal 
charges  for  tuition  and  rooms,  and  board  is  to  be 
supplied  at  cost.  It  is  to  be  essentially  a  college  for 
the  poor  boy  and  girl.  Although  it  is  named  after 
Oldport,  and  the  town  authorities  are  always  to 
have  a  representative  on  the  board  of  regents,  resi- 
dence in  Oldport  is  not  a  condition  precedent  to 
matriculation.  Oldport  College  is  to  be  without 
restriction  as  to  nativity,  race,  creed  or  color. 

To-night  Uncle  Frank  Dabney,  on  behalf  of  the 
town  of  Oldport — we  should  say  city  of  Oldport  now 
— is  to  accept  Oldport  College  from  its  builder  and 
founder.  The  ceremony  of  acceptance  is  to  take 
place  in  the  Willoughby  Memorial  Hall,  the  chief 
building  of  the  group,  and  one  dedicated  to  The 
Magnificent 's  oldest  born,  who  preceded  his  coun- 
trymen by  three  years  upon  the  battlefields  of 
France. 

Uncle  Frank  has  presided  at  county  conventions. 
Once  he  was  temporary  chairman  of  the  Republican 
state  convention  in  Boston.  He  has  spoken  times 
without  number  at  banquets  in  his  own  hotel,  and  at 
meetings  of  the  hotel  association.  He  did  not  boast 
when  he  told  Kramer  of  Perigord's  that  he  was  not 
nervous  at  prospect  of  the  oration  which  he  must 
deliver  to-night. 

But  he  made  the  statement  before  he  had  received 
the  telegram  containing  the  information  that  Sam 
Foyle  had  died.  For  a  while  it  seemed  to  Uncle 
Frank  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  go  on 
with  his  part  in  the  night's  program.  Malnutrition 
was  such  an  ugly  word.  It  evoked  a  picture  of  a 
man  who  had  never  asked  aid  of  anyone  for  himself ; 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  281 

of  a  man  who,  on  the  one  occasion  that  Uncle  Frank 
had  known  him  to  borrow  money,  had  done  so  to 
erect  a  stone  over  the  body  of  the  woman  whom  he 
had  married  to  save  from  shame.  It  conjured  forth 
a  representation  of  a  man  whose  pride  was  so  great 
that  he  preferred  to  be  misunderstood  rather  than 
to  offer  excuse  or  explanation.  Uncle  Frank  seemed 
to  see  a  man  who,  time  and  again,  had  stepped  aside 
for  others.  He  seemed  to  see  a  man,  who,  scorned 
unjustly  by  his  fellows,  is  sinking  into  an  unmourned 
grave.  Malnutrition!  Hunger!  Starvation!  Blood 
transfusion !  A  hero  dying  that  a  child  might  live ! 
Uncle  Frank  could  hardly  bear  the  picture  evoked 
by  the  telegram. 

But  he  has  recovered  himself  by  night,  and  at 
eight  o'clock  he  makes  his  way  to  the  Memorial  Hall. 
He  pauses  outside  a  small  door  at  one  corner  of  the 
building,  a  door  which  leads  directly  to  the  back  of 
the  stage  in  the  great  auditorium.  Here,  secluded, 
Uncle  Frank  removes  from  his  mouth  the  chunk  of 
Navy  Twist  that  has  served  him  well  since  supper. 
From  the  rear  pocket  of  his  trousers  he  pulls  forth 
a  polka-dotted  handkerchief  and  rubs  his  lips  and 
chin  carefully.  Then  he  passes  through  the  door- 
way, to  take  his  place,  shortly,  upon  the  stage. 

He  finds  notables  here.  The  governor  of  the  state 
rises  and  shakes  hands  with  the  owner  of  The  Com- 
mercial House.  Ramsey  Willoughby  flashes  him  a 
smile.  The  Magnificent  rises  and  shakes  his  hand. 
The  president  of  the  college  indicates  Uncle  Frank's 
chair,  and  he  takes  it.  The  great  hall  is  filled  now, 
and  the  pastor  of  the  Unitarian  church  rises  and 
utters  a  brief  prayer. 

Then  the  president  introduces  The  Magnificent  to 


282  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

the  audience.  There  is  loud  applause  as,  standing 
upright,  he  looks,  having  bowed  to  the  president,  at 
the  throng  in  the  seats  below  him. 

He  is  fifty-seven  years  old,  but  in  late  years  he  has 
not  seemed  to  age  as  rapidly  as  he  did  in  the  decade 
between  forty  and  fifty.  He  has  lost  some  of  the 
shrunken  appearance  that  was  his  when  war  began. 
His  mouth,  always  a  queer  blend  of  obstinate  asceti- 
cism and  vigorous  sensuousness,  seems  slightly  sof- 
tened. His  eyes  are  keen ;  he  has  never  worn  glasses. 
His  head  is  balder,  and  the  fringe  of  hair  that  re- 
mains to  him  is  snow  white.  His  clothing,  formal 
evening  dress  to-night,  is  carefully  tailored.  Alto- 
gether, while  not  an  imposing  figure,  he  is  by  no 
means  negligible. 

He  has  never  made  any  pretensions  to  being  a 
public  speaker.  Nevertheless,  his  voice,  while  some- 
what harsh,  carries  well.  And  there  is  always  about 
him  an  appearance  of  earnestness  that  arrests  his 
hearers'  attention. 

"Mr.  President,  Your  Excellency,  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen," he  begins.  "I  am  grateful  to  you  for  the 
manner  in  which  you  receive  me.  I  wish  that  I  could 
feel  that  your  applause  is  due  me,  and  is  for  me.  No 
man  could  fail  to  be  deeply  moved  at  applause  from 
the  people  of  his  own  home  town.  But  somehow  I 
know  that  your  greeting  is  not  for  me.  And  as  I 
think  upon  the  fact,  I  withdraw  my  wish.  For  I  am 
prouder  that  you  should  applaud  the  person  you  do, 
than  if  I  were  the  object  of  your  kindness. 

' '  For  I  know  that  your  hands  beat  together  in  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  valor  of  my  son,  to  whom  this 
building  is  dedicated,  and  whose  memory  will  live 
longer  than  my  own." 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  283 

He  pauses,  and  instantaneous  applause  fills  the 
room.  For  his  audience  senses  that  this  is  no  dra- 
matic effort  on  The  Magnificent 's  part.  He  is  speak- 
ing in  deadly  earnestness,  with  a  sincerity  that  can 
not  be  denied. 

"My  son,"  he  continues,  "gave  all  that  he  had  to 
give.  I  am  giving  less  than  all  I  have  to  give.  In 
behalf  of  my  son,  then,  I  hereby  give  these  buildings, 
this  institution,  to  the  youth  of  America. ' ' 

He  bows  and  walks  to  his  chair  beside  Ramsey. 
One  of  her  hands  is  over  her  eyes ;  the  other  gropes 
for  his  and  clasps  it.  Her  shoulders  move;  we 
know  that  she  is  weeping. 

The  president  signals  to  Uncle  Frank.  Re- 
splendent in  his  brand  new  evening  clothes,  the  chief 
speaker  of  the  evening  advances  to  the  place  on  the 
stage  left  vacant  by  The  Magnificent.  He  acknowl- 
edges the  presence  of  the  distinguished  people  on 
the  stage  and  addresses  the  audience. 

"Man  and  boy,"  he  says,  "I  have  known  Jim  Wil- 
loughby  for  fifty-seven  years.  I've  watched  him 
grow  from  a  little  baby  into  the  richest  man  in 
America,  in  all  the  world.  And  I  want  to  tell  you  all 
that  it  ain't  accident  that  made  him  what  he  is.  It 
was  hard  work  and  vision. 

"He  saw  the  possibilities  of  the  bicycle.  It's  true 
that  other  people  saw  it,  too,  but  none  of  the  rest  of 
them  saw  it  the  way  Jim  Willoughby  did.  Other 
people  wanted  to  make  good  bicycles.  Jim  Wil- 
loughby wanted  to  make  good  bicycles  cheap.  He 
saw  the  possibilities  of  the  automobile.  So  did  other 
people,  but  Jim  Willoughby  dreamed  of  the  motor 
car  available  almost  to  the  poorest  purse,  and  made 
his  dream  come  true. 


284  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

"He's  done  more  than  make  a  fortune;  he's  been 
of  service  to  the  community,  the  nation,  and  the 
world.  And  now,  having  made  transportation 
cheaper  and  better,  he 's  going  to  do  the  same  thing 
for  education,  in  so  far  as  one  man,  or  one  college, 
may  be  able. 

"He  made  his  own  chance,  created  his  own  op- 
portunity. He  didn't  go  to  college,  although  he 
could  have  done  so.  But  he  wants  the  boy  who  may 
be  different  from  him,  who  may  want  to  go  to  col- 
lege, to  have  his  chance. 

"We  hear  a  lot  of  wild  talk  about  the  crimes  that 
millionaires  commit.  We  hear  it  said  that  because 
huge  fortunes  are  piled  up,  the  poor  grow  poorer. 
I'm  no  economist,  just  a  plain  hotel  keeper,  but  I 
don't  believe  what  they  say. 

"It  ain't  the  hoarding  of  money  that's  wrong;  it's 
the  hoarding  of  opportunity.  And  nobody  has  been 
able  to  collect  all  the  opportunity  in  the  world,  and 
lock  it  up  where  no  one  can  get  at  it.  But  some  men 
refrain  from  offering  opportunity.  Jim  Willoughby 
ain't  that  kind.  These  buildings,  the  endowment 
fund  that  he  has  created,  prove  that. 

"He  said  that  we  were  not  applauding  him,  but 
his  son.  It  is  true  that  every  one  of  us  here  honors 
the  memory  of  his  son.  But  we  also  honor  the 
achievement  of  his  father.  It  may  not  be  a  good 
thing  for  a  country  to  be  the  most  prosperous  and 
powerful  in  the  world.  God  knows;  I  don't.  But 
inasmuch  as  every  country  tries  to  be  prosperous 
and  powerful,  those  men  who  help  to  make  it  should 
be  honored  by  their  countrymen.  For  prosperity 
and  power  mean  increased  opportunity  for  every- 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  285 

one,  and  opportunity  is  all  that  any  man  should  ask 
for  himself  or  his  sons. 

"Jim  Willoughby  to-night  is  offering  opportunity 
to  the  sons  of  men  that  ain't  been  born  yet.  On  be- 
half of  the  town  of  Oldport  I  thank  him. ' ' 

He  sits  down  and  mops  his  forehead,  while  the 
audience  cheers  him.  He  listens  abstractedly  to  the 
brief  speech  of  the  governor.  Then,  still  mopping 
his  forehead,  he  follows  The  Magnificent  and  Ram- 
sey from  the  building,  his  huge  bulk  enabling  him  to 
crowd  his  way  to  them. 

"I  want  to  go  home  with  you,"  he  says. 

"Why,  of  course,"  says  Ramsey.  "Shall  we 
walk?" 

"I'd  like  to,"  says  Uncle  Frank. 

"I'll  ride,  if  you  don't  mind,"  says  The  Magnifi- 
cent. "I  have  some  letters  to  get  off.  I'll  have 
them  done  by  the  time  you  people  reach  the  house." 
He  reaches  out  and  grips  Uncle  Frank's  hand. 
"That  was  mighty  nice,  what  you  said  about  me." 

"It's  all  true,"  says  Uncle  Frank. 

"Now  you're  making  it  twice  as  nice,"  laughs 
Willoughby.  He  climbs  briskly  into  a  waiting  motor 
car  and  the  chauffeur  starts  along  High  Street 
toward  Main  and  the  old  Blake  house. 

Uncle  Frank  and  Ramsey  walk  a  few  rods  in 
silence.  Then  Uncle  Frank,  having  tried  in  vain  to 
think  of  some  gentler  way  of  breaking  the  news, 
gives  up  in  despair,  and  blurts  out,  "Sam  Foyle's 
dead." 

Ramsey  stops  short;  her  hand  clutches  at  her 
heart ;  her  violet  eyes  widen. 

"Sam?    Dead?"    She  is  incredulous. 


286  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

"Got  a  telegram  to-day.  Malnutrition  and  his  old 
wound,"  says  Uncle  Frank. 

"Malnutrition?"  Eamsey  is  horrified.  "I  can't 
believe  it." 

"Everybody  ain't  rich,  Ramsey,"  says  Uncle 
Frank.  "There's  lots  of  poor  people  that  are 
hungry. ' ' 

She  holds  out  her  hand  before  her  eyes  as  though 
to  fend  off  some  dreadful  sight.  "Don't,  Uncle 
Frank." 

"There  was  something  else,  too,"  says  Uncle 
Frank.  "A  child,  and  blood  transfusion." 

"And  he  gave,  as  always,  more  than  he  could  af- 
ford!" There  is  a  proud,  almost  exultant  note,  in 
Ramsey's  voice.  But  suddenly  she  leans  against  a 
fence.  "Why  didn't  he  tell  us?  Poor,  hungry — " 

Uncle  Frank  laughs  to  avoid  sobbing.  "Catch 
Sam  sharing  his  troubles  with  anyone!  He  was 
too  busy  sharing  the  troubles  of  other  people." 

Ramsey  is  gripping  the  fence  as  a  drowning 
woman  might  clutch  at  a  raft.  Her  shoulders  have 
shaken  gently  this  evening  at  mention  of  her  son; 
now  they  move  convulsively  and  from  her  throat 
come  harsh  sounds. 

Uncle  Frank  puts  an  arm  around  her.  "You 
mustn't,  Ramsey,"  he  says.  He  looks  back  over 
his  shoulder,  but  there  is  no  one  coming  their  way. 
The  rest  of  the  audience  have  returned  to  the  center 
of  the  town  by  way  of  Windmill  Hill.  Uncle  Frank 
makes  no  further  effort  to  still  Ramsey's  sobbing. 
For  a  full  five  minutes  she  weeps;  then  she  is  in 
control  of  herself. 

"What  can  we  do?"  she  asks. 

"I've  telegraphed  to  send — "  Uncle  Frank  gulps 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN  287 

— "the  body  home.  There  ain't  anything  else  we 
can  do." 

In  the  moon-light  Ramsey's  face  is  streaked  with 
tears.  Her  voice,  however,  is  firm.  "No  one  ever 
could  do  anything  for  Sam.  He  went  his  own  way. 
And  what  a  lovely  way  it  was !" 

* '  He  died  like  a  man, ' '  says  Uncle  Frank.  *  *  Great- 
er love — " 

"He  lived  like  a  God,"  cries  Eamsey.  Uncle 
Frank  utters  a  shocked  exclamation.  He  starts  to 
speak,  but  she  interrupts  him.  "You  spoke  of  Jim's 
services,  to-night." 

"And  every  word  of  it  was  true,"  declares  Uncle 
Frank  stoutly. 

"I  know  it,"  says  Ramsey,  "but  there  are  two 
kinds  of  service.  One  takes  payment  and  the  other 
refuses  it." 

"You're  talkin'  about  your  husband,"  Uncle 
Frank  warns  her. 

"And  about  Sam  Foyle,"  she  amends  his  state- 
ment. "Oh,  Uncle  Frank,  if  Jim  had  only  had  the 
eyes  of  Sam ! ' ' 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  asserts  Uncle 
Frank. 

"You  do  know,"  says  Ramsey.  "If  Jim  had  had 
Sam's  heart!" 

"I  won't  listen  to  such  talk.  Don't  you  love  your 
husband!"  demands  Uncle  Frank. 

"You  know  I  do,"  cries  Ramsey.  "And  because 
I  love  him  I  feel  the  way  I  do.  He  could  have  been 
— anything.  He  chose  to  be — what  he  is. ' ' 

"He's  the  richest  man  in  the  world,"  says  Uncle 
Frank. 

"  'Riches  and  honor  are  with  me,'  "  she  quotes. 


288  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

"Ramsey  Willoughby,  are  you  intimating  that 
your  husband  ain't  honorable?"  asks  Uncle  Frank 
with  severity. 

"Of  course  not.  But  every  man  acts  according 
to  his  lights.  I  wish  that  Sam's  lights  had  been 
Jim's." 

"You  never  really  were  in  love  with  Sam,  were 
you? "  Uncle  Frank  is  shocked  at  his  own  question. 
"That  time  I  found  you  in  his  room — " 

She  interrupts  him  with  a  scornful  laugh.  "I 
never  could  love  anyone  but  Jim  in  this  life.  We 
love  with  our  bodies,  our  passions,  our  simple  mis- 
guided hearts.  We  cannot  help  ourselves.  But  in 
some  world  where  the  body  and  the  emotions  are 
gone,  and  our  minds  remain,  and  we  see  the  truth — " 

"You  think  you'll  love  Sam  then!"  demands 
Uncle  Frank. 

'  *  I  know  I  will, ' '  she  tells  him. 

"Ramsey,  you're  beyond  me,"  says  Uncle  Frank. 
"And  yet,  maybe  not  so  far  beyond  me.  I  kind  of 
think — Ramsey,  I  loved  Sam  like  a  younger  brother. 
I — Why  didn't  he  do  better  by  himself?  I  tell  you 
Ramsey,  that  all  that  Jim  has  done,  Sam  could  have 
done. ' ' 

"And  more,"  she  whispers,  softly. 

"Then  why  didn't  he?"  cries  Uncle  Frank. 

"Perhaps  he  did,"  says  Ramsey.  "When  I  think 
of  Jennie  Smollen — and  other  things — Oh,  Uncle 
Frank,  why  don't  we  understand  that  the  things 
that  matter  our  not  our  wealth,  our  position,  our 
achievements,  but  our  sacrifices?" 

Uncle  Frank  laughs  cynically.  "When  we  under- 
stand that,  Ramsey,  the  world  will  be  heaven. ' ' 

"Why  shouldn't  it  be?"  she  asks. 


A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

He  makes  no  answer.  Silently  they  walk  along 
High  Street  and  down  Main  to  the  Willoughby 
home,  the  home  that  they  have  come  back  to  after 
many  years.  Uncle  Frank  leans  over  and  kisses  her 
on  the  cheek.  Heavily  he  walks  down  the  hill,  and 
Ramsey  enters  the  house. 

A  light  shines  through  the  crack  at  the  bottom  of 
the  door  of  her  husband's  study.  She  stands  out- 
side the  door.  She  thinks  of  her  life  with  Wil- 
loughby. She  realizes,  suddenly,  her  own  mistakes. 
She  expected  perfection  and  she  got  a  husband. 
Was  she  perfection  that  she  demanded  it,  for  so 
many  years  starving  her  passions,  her  love,  while 
she  waited? 

WTiy  did  she  not  make  the  best  of  it?  Because  she 
let  pride  rule  her.  Pride,  the  curse  of  all  mankind. 
She  thinks  of  what  Uncle  Frank  said  in  his  speech 
to-night.  Suddenly  it  seems  to  her  that  her  husband 
is  something  more  than  a  man ;  he  is  the  very  spirit 
of  the  America  of  to-day.  Sam  Foyle  seems  to  her 
to  be  the  very  spirit  of  an  America  that  is  to  come. 
But  one  loves  the  America  of  to-day,  even  while 
praying  for  the  future  not  to  delay. 

To  take  more  than  one  gives,  or  to  give  more  than 
one  takes :  one  is  business,  and  the  other  is  idealism. 
One's  mind  accepts  idealism,  but  one's  flesh  thrills 
at  business. 

She  thinks  of  the  parable  in  St.  Luke's  gospel. 
"When  thou  art  bidden  of  any  man  to  a  wedding, 
sit  not  down  in  the  highest  room ;  lest  a  more  honor- 
able man  than  thou  be  bidden  of  him " 

Yet  The  Magnificent,  her  husband,  sat  down  in 

the  highest  room Yet,  perhaps,  there  was 

even  a  higher  one.  That  was  it ;  there  was  a  higher 


290  A  MORE  HONORABLE  MAN 

one,  but  only  a  few  people  could  see  it,  even  knew 
of  its  existence. 

Sam  Foyle  had  occupied  that  higher  room. 

She  slowly  shakes  her  head  as  she  opens  the  door. 
If  her  husband,  when  he  received  the  invitation  to 
enter  the  Cabinet  and  dedicate  his  life  to  public 
service,  had  accepted,  might  not  he  have  entered 
that  higher  room? 

But  it  is  too  late  now  to  ask  questions,  to  ponder. 
For  higher  or  lower  she  took  him;  she  accepts  him 
now.  He  is  not  perfect ;  but,  oh,  his  very  imperfec- 
tions belong  to  her.  She  tip-toes  into  the  room  to 
tell  him  of  Foyle 's  death. 


A     000  778  701     3 


